


Between the shadow and the soul

by fireatwill52



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wedding Planner, Leon is the best bro of all the bros, M/M, Merlin is the best 5eva, Morgana is so done, and is very closeted, arthur has a near permanent headache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireatwill52/pseuds/fireatwill52
Summary: Merthur wedding planner!au.Arthur meets Merlin at a wedding and falls head over heels. About an hour later his fiancee Vivian talks Merlin into being their wedding planner. Arthur thinks this is fantastic, because he gets to spend more time with Merlin... if only there wasn't going to be a wedding that married him to someone else at the end of it.





	Between the shadow and the soul

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my bff and platonic better half Apollo for the beta'ing and the overall idea.
> 
> This fic is a little personal - the title comes from 'Sonnet XVII' by Pablo Neruda, the last verses of which my husband and I used in our wedding. In general it was easy to tap into Arthur's immediate and all-consuming feelings for Merlin, I just drew a bit from when I first saw my husband. It's a good thing to remember when he's aggravating me nowadays, a decade down the line.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, feel free to comment and to find me on tumblr - @jean----ralphio

Vivian has to say Arthur’s name four times before he tears himself away from watching the snow fall in fluttering flakes outside the window, glowing in the moonlight as it gathers in the garden, on the tops of bushes and branches of trees.

“Arthur! Will you hurry up, everyone’s arriving!” Vivian’s standing at the door, one hand elegant on the frame as she pulls her sling-back gold heels onto her feet and scowls at him over her shoulder. “Your father is waiting!”

With that he tears himself away from the stunning view, does up the buttons of his suit jacket and crosses the room to her, taking her hand dutifully, silently to lead her out into the hallway.

Uther has outdone himself for Pendragon Incorporated’s annual Christmas party. From the ice sculpture of a dragon in the driveway to the orchestra in the ballroom that look suspiciously like the members of the Berlin philharmonic, it’s a heck of a display. Camelot Hall is already naturally beautiful, all whitewashed stone, ivy and turrets, but this is something else. Arthur surveys the decor as he walks down the marble staircase to the entry hall, which is draped in Pendragon gold and red. It doesn’t look like his ancestral home, which though grand is usually at least tasteful; it’s been re-decorated to look like something out of period drama – red and gold hangings everywhere, the finest and most priceless of their art, vases and statues on display, just in case the world didn’t already know how rich and privileged they are.

Arthur should never have told his father he is going to propose. That’s what this was all for – Uther wants it all perfect, all the better for the occasion to be immortalised in memory.

On his arm Vivian is resplendent in scarlet, her hair gathered up on her head in an elegant gold twist of curls. The ring in its box burns a hole in his breast pocket. He smiles fondly down at her when she turns her head to look up at him but can’t help letting it slip the second after she looks away.

They step off the last stair and head to his father, who’s holding court by the front doors greeting guests as they come in from the snow.

“Arthur! Vivian!” Uther greets them both as if they’d just arrived in from the cold too, rather than been staying all week. Morgana next to him is stylish in a backless dress of emerald green lace, her eyes framed with liquid black eyeliner. She offers her brother a kiss on the cheek that allows him to free himself from Vivian’s claw-like death grip on his arm for a few moments.

“How are you?” She asks in undertone, leading him a few steps away, ostensibly to fetch a glass of wine with her from the table set up by the suit of armour he’s been too scared to go near since he was 12 and accidentally knocked the whole thing into pieces with his football. It had been a heck of a good bicycle kick though.

“Who hasn’t father told?” Arthur grumbles, taking a long gulp of a glass of merlot.

“Don’t be silly, he’s only told me. It concerns the future of the company after all – _she’s_ going to produce the next heir to Pendragon Incorporated.” Her icy stare burns through him almost as bad as the ring box. She looks angry even though she’s smiling, though that’s not unusual.

Arthur sighs and closes his eyes, overwhelmed by how badly he doesn’t want to be here, doing this. He hates their parties – this time an ornate Christmas party for the company and their stakeholders, but always the same pomp and grandeur – he hates the vast majority of these people – sycophantic holier-than-thou prats, except for his sister, though she could manipulate and scheme with the best of them – he hates this life – where all anyone ever sees when they look at him is Uther’s successor, Vivian included. It’s times like these when he feels lowest – when he can’t remember who he really is beyond his duties and last name, what he likes and enjoys, the things that make him a real person, because the life gets sucked from him the instant he’s in this company – that he should be able to turn to the woman he’s about to ask to be his wife for support. Only he doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t want her, and when he’s with her he’s not the real him anyway.

Vivian didn’t make him feel anything at all, least of all good.

He turns to look back at her, sipping more of his wine as he does so. He savours the richness of flavour on his tongue and allows himself to take a few seconds of comfort from Morgana’s hand light on his shoulder.

“Don’t do it if you don’t love her, Arthur. There’s nothing on this earth that could be worth a loveless marriage,” she begs.

“I have to,” he tells her, because it’s true. “It’s been three years. Father wants to retire. I must put myself in the best light and show my capability to follow in his footsteps – a successful marriage will show I have that maturity and can make that commitment. And I can’t expect her to wait much longer. Then I’ll have to start a whole new charade with someone else, and I’ll have wasted all this time for nothing.”

Morgana looks uncharacteristically worried, “But you don’t love her! I’m not sure half the time you even _like_ her. You have nothing in common, she’s rude and vain and stuck up, and yes, you are a big-headed prat but you’re a good person. Don’t you think you deserve someone who cares about you for more than just our last name?”

Arthur just shrugs. There’s nothing else he can do. It’s too late to back out – Uther has caught his eye and given him a meaningful nod. He wants it done before everyone gathers in the ballroom, so they can all celebrate together. It’s time. He pulls away from his sister and fetches Vivian, preparing to lead her out to the green sitting room, where there’s a fire burning in the grate in preparation, and a stunning view from the window out at the snowy gardens to set the scene.

Vivian comes with him readily, missing the beaming smile from her soon to be father-in-law over her head to his son.

It goes as Arthur knew it would. He leads her into the room, turns her to face him before the fire, gets on one knee and pulls out the box, says words he won’t remember afterwards because he doesn’t mean them or believe in them and doesn’t want to be saying them in the first place.

Vivian covers her mouth with her hands as she watches him go through the motions, brown eyes wide and wet, but once he asks, she just screams and can’t get the ring – 24 carats of rose gold, with a radiant cut champagne pink diamond in a diamond halo setting – on her finger fast enough. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him as he gets to his feet and he doesn’t feel a damn thing.

A round of applause greets them as they enter the glittering ballroom, all soft candlelight and crystal glassware. Morgana reaches him first, brushes another dutiful kiss to his cheek and wraps her arms around him as she whispers that she’s sorry. Greeting his father hurts worse. Uther is beaming with pride and when he crushes his son to his chest, he tells him how truly proud he is, how much he loves him and how pleased he is to see him so happy. Arthur stares over his father’s shoulder at the snow falling outside the arched windows and fights the urge to cry.

Instead, he fixes his fake smile in place and doesn’t let it drop for the rest of the night. Better that he gets used to keeping it on through drinks, dinner, dancing, while talking and laughing and charming the people he hates, because this is the life ahead of him now, forever, and he best practise pretending to enjoy both it, and the woman who will forevermore be the constant presence at his side.

*

It all gets so much worse, which he didn’t think was even possible because he already felt like shit. She moves into his townhouse on Cheyne Walk one frigid, grey Saturday morning in January, and he’s been getting by avoiding her as much as he can since Christmas, but this calls an end to that.

“Of course we’ll have to live together now,” she’d told him primly the night he’d proposed, and now here she was, boxes all along his halfway and up the stairs, her clothes invading his closet, a sea of designer brands, dark cashmere and bright silks, while she rearranges the way he stacks his black china dinner plates in his kitchen cupboard and eyes his beloved brown leather couch as if it was destined for the nearest skip.

By early afternoon Arthur has had enough of feeling besieged in his own home and takes himself down to the pub, Vivian calling a cheerful “Bye darling!” from where she’s busily hanging turquoise curtains in his study, having pulled down his ash grey one because they were “too dull”. He texts Leon to meet him as he walks, because out of all his friends Leon’s the only one who won’t feel the need to remind him, he’s making a mistake. The weight on his shoulders eases a little when Leon ambles into the bar and over to Arthur’s booth, clapping him on the shoulder and dropping down next to him, smiling his calm and easy smile. They talk about football, and Arthur’s never not wanted to go home so badly in his life, over many beers and several bowls of fries, as Man U wipe the floor with Tottenham on the telly behind the bar.

He sighs when his phone starts lighting up, breaks off comparing Essien to Malouda back in the day and grudgingly answers Vivian’s call.

“Dinner is ready!” She chirps happily, and his eyebrows shoot up at the concept of her cooking, then even higher when he realises the time.

Leon looks just as perturbed as he is but waves goodbye as they leave and wishes him luck, whistling as he wanders away to the comfort of his own flat on Bramerton Street, his telly and his couch and his freedom.

Arthur drags his feet the whole way home.

What he returns to is Vietnamese ordered through uber eats, and someone he doesn’t love.

Vivian chatters away airily about her plans – she wants to bring her favourite interior decorator in next week – because in the three years they’ve been seeing each other she’s only come here a handful of times “and honestly, Arthur, the guest bathroom just needs a complete rehaul, I didn’t realise it was _so bad_.”

If Arthur bites into his pork and prawn summer roll harder than necessary, she doesn’t notice.

Going to bed is weird. She’d changed the duvet set to bright yellow and fuchsia pink flowers that hurt his eyes. She expects sex to celebrate her moving in, climbs on top of him in nothing but a purple camisole and a matching G-string, but he hasn’t had nearly enough to drink to bear the thought. They usually sleep together once or twice a week, but how will he avoid it now when every night she would be here, for the rest of their lives?

He gently rolls her off him and wraps an arm around her shoulders to reassure her, blaming the shifting around of the furniture, the drinks with Leon, the excitement of her being here, for his tiredness.

She falls asleep with her arm slung over his chest, while he stares at the ceiling until his eyes get too heavy and the regret eventually weighs him down to sleep as well.

*

He throws himself into his work with a vigour that impresses his father and makes Morgana roll her eyes. His home life is now ruined and miserable. He might as well expend all his effort and energy at work, so he can go home exhausted and has a valid excuse not to have to interact with his fiancée.

Yes, he knows that’s not an even remotely healthy attitude, but he made his bed.

Work is… well. Pendragon Incorporates is the largest media conglomerate in Great Britain; they own the most popular radio station, the best-selling tabloid newspaper, three publishing houses and five tv stations.

He’s not particularly interested in the work he does – chairing the meetings, giving interviews (he’s the public face of the company), the having-to-pretend-to-give-a-shit about ratings and opinions and censorship. But one day the company will be his – it’s what his whole life has been directed towards. Plus, it keeps him away from Vivian during the day, so.

That is, until she shows up in his office while he’s in the middle of a call with an investor, wanting to plan their engagement party.

She totters into his office on sky-high red velvet stilettos, wearing a tight black minidress and won’t take no for an answer, plopping down on his lap at his desk and disconnecting the call before launching into a tirade about colour schemes and hiring out the Ritz.

“Darling, if we’re going to book it, we have to do it now!” She insists when he tries to tell her he doesn’t have time for this. “Now, what do you think of peach?”

“… As a flavour?”

“As the main colour of the theme!” She spits, eyes hardening as she scowls down at him. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously!?”

“Because he doesn’t care!” Morgana announces herself into the room as she throws the door open, Arthur’s nervous secretary Freya – whom Vivian had probably sailed straight past even though the poor girl would have tried to stop her – peering anxiously over her shoulder because she knows she’s in trouble for buzzing Vivian in. “He’s got a stakeholder meeting in half an hour. And men don’t care about colours and decorations! Just do whatever you want, he doesn’t mind.”

Arthur takes the distraction as the opportunity it is and lifts his fiancée gingerly off his lap, scooping up his files and unplugging his flash drive from his computer as he stands.

“Whatever you plan will be excellent,” he insists to Vivian, as he urges her towards the door. “I trust you completely. Have fun with it!”

That mollifies her enough into pecking his cheek and departing, already on the phone to her best friend Sophia and talking about the gift registry before the door is closed behind her.

Arthur waves Freya back to her desk and she huddles behind her computer monitor like it’s a shield.

Morgana is, as standard, unimpressed.

“Shall I just move in with you too, so I can fight your battles for you for the rest of your married life?”

“Ugh,” that thought makes his stomach turn. But still. “Can you, actually?”

She raps him upside the head with a manila folder as she leads the way to the board-room so they can start setting up, just because she can.

*

The party should have been wonderful – _is_ wonderful. The Ritz is Vivian’s favourite place in the world, she proclaims as they take the elevator down from their room – which is the royal suite, of course. She is wearing a dress that seems to be made entirely of bright pink glitter, and her hair cascades in golden waves down her back. She is beautiful, as always. He just wishes that fact, simple for anyone with eyes, did more to him.

She grips his hand and beams up at him as they come to stand outside the Marie Antoinette Room, where they’ll greet their guests as they enter. He has three glasses of champagne before the first of them even arrive, but not even one helps with the sickening nerves in his throat.

Tonight’s party is with Vivian’s friends (the previous nights had been for the company, tomorrow is for his friends, thank God, and the last night would be just the two families), and it’s the one he has been dreading the most.

Once the room is full of cackling women and their suave partners, waiters circulate with glasses of champagne – Vivian’s favourite thing, she gushes to Arthur as she downs a glass, pink cheeked and giggly and shoving her ring under her friend’s jealous noses at every opportunity.

When they sit for dinner Arthur desperately waves over Elyan, one of his closest friends who’s recently been seeing Mithian, ones of Vivian’s model girlfriends. He takes solace in their whispered conversation about Chelsea’s latest manager’s punch-up with a linesman.

The food is divine – tucking into his lobster is far more enjoyable than listening to wedding plans and watching Vivian eye the table laden with their engagement gifts. Arthur can quite clearly see a pink striped Victoria’s Secret bag perched at the top of one pile. He shudders.

“How are you feeling,” Elyan asks him undertone later, when they’re huddled by a window nursing Belgian beer and sharing a plate of marzipan fruits. “Are you excited? Petrified? Do I need to stop you jumping out the window?”

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh – it was good to drop the mask around one of the few people he trusts, even in public. His close friends – Leon and Elyan, as well as Lance, Gwaine and Percival – knew all too well the truth about Arthur’s feelings, or lack thereof.

“I’m OK,” Arthur replies, not completely dishonestly. He largely accepts the life ahead of him – he didn’t see how he would cope, or, God forbid, be _happy_ , but he had resigned himself to it. And he is OK tonight – he’s enjoying his time with his friend, good food and wine, able to ignore it all, her.

“Look at all those presents, something to look forward to,” Elyan smiles and cocks an eyebrow toward the table of gifts.

“Sure,” Arthur agrees, amenable, tipsy. “Why not.” He might even be able to get it up tonight, though he’s had quite a lot to drink. He can imagine what the gifts are – what Vivian and Sophia would have selected for the registry – vases, cookware, Egyptian cotton linen in marble, copper, cream. Pretty new things to fill Vivian’s pretty new life in her pretty new house.

Arthur is another pretty accessory.

Later, when they’re upstairs and alone in their suite, he falls asleep as quickly as he can on the bed, still in his dress slacks while she greedily tears into wrapping paper amid pleased exclamations.

*

Vivian is not happy.

She’s standing in his walk-in wardrobe in a very short, pink towel (somehow all his towels, which were shades of greys and greens, had disappeared when she moved in and seem to have been completely replaced by white, pink and purple. He’s not fussed what colours are about, but seriously, who throws out perfectly good towels!?). She is frowning down at the mint green wedding invitation clutched in her hand, its lavender font informing that the wedding ceremony of Guinevere and Lancelot starts at midday.

It’s 10am. They need to be out the door half an hour ago because it’s the height of spring and Gwen and Lance are getting married in a field of wildflowers out in the bloody countryside of Hampshire because its idyllic and beautiful and _of course_ they are.

But they’re still in the house because Vivian is not happy.

“I have _nothing_ pastel, which is clearly what guests are supposed to wear,” she rounds on Arthur, who’s sitting on the white chaise at the foot of the bed fiddling with the purple bow on the present while he waits, as if it’s his fault, personally.

“I just don’t wear pastel! Pastel is for babies. All I have is this,” she gestures to a lilac coloured miniskirt. “And I can’t wear that because _obviously_ the bridesmaids are wearing lavender and it will look like I’m trying to copy!”

“Are they?” Arthur takes the invitation, but he can’t see that written anywhere, nor anything about people having to wear pastel. He looks at his watch.

“Look I hate to rush you, but we really ought to get a move on….”

She sort of hisses at him, before snatching a sky-blue dress off a hanger and, impressively, pulling it on even as she digs out silver heels and a purse.

“I’ll do my makeup in the car,” she huffs as he rushes her towards the door.

The drive is awkward. Every moment spent with her is awkward. She chatters away about a photoshoot she has in Paris at the end of the month for someone named Vera, then about how Sophia said that Eira said that Nimueh and Alvarr got caught shagging in the bathrooms at the after-party of the Givenchy resort-wear show, and then about how the pastel and wildflowers theme of Gwen and Lance’s wedding is _sweet_ and suits them, but isn’t to our taste, is it, Arthur? No. Their wedding is going to be glamourous and high class and _indoors_.

They arrive in time at the ceremony site to receive cones of pink cherry blossom petals from an usher and scramble into seats next to Gwaine and Leon, who are busy making faces to try and get a slightly pale Lance to laugh from where he’s standing before them all, waiting. Next to him is Elyan, then Percy and then some odd-looking bloke that Arthur’s never seen before, even though something in him twinges and releases the second he lays eyes on him.

The stranger has dark hair, pale skin, insane cheekbones and looks a little skinny in his grey suit. Even as he takes him in everything around Arthur seems to slow down as his heartbeat picks up, his mouth goes dry and blood flushes his cheeks because he looks and looks and can’t stop looking.

The wedding march starts, but Arthur barely notices the bridesmaids even though his own sister is amongst them, just can’t tear his eyes from the guy until a sudden, massive grin splits his face, and Gwen walks past Arthur with her dad, stunning in lace with a keyhole back, her long hair unbound and carrying an armful of the purple and yellow flowers that match those in the field around them.

The ceremony is lovely, as all weddings are, and mercifully not too long, though Arthur couldn’t tell you what happened or who said what or read what readings, only that the guy grins the whole time and cheers amongst the loudest when the couple are pronounced husband and wife, his eyes crinkling in happiness as Lance kisses Gwen, picking her up and spinning her around in his arms. Then they set off down the aisle together, clutching each other’s hands and laughing as they’re showered with petals, the bridal party following.

Arthur forgets his cone entirely, is still holding it in his hand as the guests follow the party and start to make their way down the receiving line, stationed under a copse of beech trees. Arthur barely notices when it’s his and Vivian’s turn to start down the line, feels dizzy and like he’s swooning, outside of himself. Percy crushes Arthur in a bear-hug that lifts him off his feet, crows in his ear, but Arthur is already staring at the guy next to him, who’s greeting Vivian with a polite kiss on the cheek.

Then it’s Arthur’s turn and he pats Percy’s back in farewell and reaches for the guy’s hand to shake before he’s even properly in front of him, sort of stumbling closer.

“Hi,” The guy smiles, and Arthur thrills. “I’m Merlin.”

“Merlin,” Arthur echoes, reluctantly releasing his hand. “I’m Arthur.”

Merlin spots the cone he’s still holding and laughs, “Did you forget? That’s OK, you can throw it over them now, if you like.”

“I don’t think Lance will like being greeted with a face of flowers. How do you know him?”

“Gwen’s my best friend,” Merlin smiles, “and I live next to them so I’m over all the time. Plus, we’re business associates.”

“Business associates?” Arthur has never encountered this guy before – neither through Gwen, nor Lance, so whenever Gwen had become friends with him was certainly after _they’d_ been dating, though granted that had been back when they were 16. They’d stayed close though, Arthur and Gwen, and had come to see even more of each other when she had started dating Lance, one of his high school friends, but he’d never come across Merlin before now.

Nowadays, Gwen ran a bakery in Primrose Hill. So how exactly did this guy fit in?

“I plan weddings,” Merlin carries on.

“Ah. Did you plan this wedding?”

“Of course!” Merlin laughs again, and Arthur doesn’t want to move away, but Vivian’s at the end of the line now, gingerly hugging Gwen as if she’d lose money by the physical contact, and he’s causing a back-log of people behind him, holding everyone up.

He nods to Merlin, “It’s lovely. Best get on…” he gestures absently at Elyan, whose been waiting for him with a cocked eyebrow. Merlin just laughs and waves him on down the line.

Arthur can practically _hear_ the questions on Elyan’s brain at his weird behaviour, but he just hugs him quickly and says congratulations, then he’s kissing Elena quickly on the cheek, and Sefa, and then his sister, who shoots him an odd smirk then scowls and shoves him away.

He hugs Lance tightly and slaps his back, as his friend chuckles in his ear, then he steps back and throws the petals at him. Lance dissolves into laughter, too euphorically happy to do anything but reach out to hug him again. Merlin gives Arthur a thumbs up over Gwaine’s head.

“I’m so pleased for you both,” Arthur smiles at Lance and he just beams, face flushed and joyful, a stray blossom in his hair.

Then Arthur takes Gwen in his arms and she squeezes his shoulders and smiles up at him, looking so blissful and serene that he thinks his face will crack from smiling in response.

“Guinevere,” he says, as a revered fondness takes over him, and for the first time since arriving here something’s eclipsed skinny, smiling Merlin. “Gwen,” he says again, “I don’t think anyone’s been this happy at an ex-girlfriend’s wedding before.”

Gwen and Lance both peal with laughter, and once again Arthur’s holding up the line because he doesn’t want to leave her quite yet, and it’s worth it because Merlin’s looking his way and grinning again.

When Arthur finally wends his way in search of his friends in the marquee that’s set up in the field beyond (Vivian has given up waiting for him and has long since disappeared to he-doesn’t-care-where), he spots Gwaine easily, holding court at the bar and surrounded by fawning, beautiful women.

Gwaine peels himself away from them when Arthur approaches, shaking his trademark long hair out of his eyes before handing him a beer and clapping his shoulder.

“Doesn’t Perce mind?” Arthur gestures with his chin back to the gaggle of women, who are now looking forlorn. They head over to look at the seating plan, a frame of wildflowers with the chart in lavender ink on green card.

Gwaine just shrugs, “Nah. He knows it would never mean anything.”

They’re seated with Vivian and Elyan’s girlfriend Mithian, who it turns out are already huddled together gossiping at the table. Leon is there too, gazing in bemusement at their table card.

“Red velvet,” he laughs when Arthur takes his seat between him and Vivian, and Gwaine plonks down on Leon’s other side and starts eating the grape-leaf dolmas in the centre of the table.

“All the tables are named after cakes,” Vivian reports, a note of hilarity in her voice.

“Makes sense, since Gwen’s a baker,” Mithian points out, when Vivian rounds on her expecting her to laugh too. Arthur peers about and sure enough of the tables nearest them, Lance’s family are “Lemon Syrup” and Gwen’s rowdy university friends are “Coffee & Walnut”.

“Well,” Vivian shakes out her hair as they’re joined by a few more people; Valiant from their old rugby team, who leers down Mithian’s dress, and Gaius and Alice, who fuss over Arthur and congratulate Vivian about their engagement.

“Well,” Vivian continues, once everyone is settled and the attention is back on her, “I think _we_ should have something a little more… classy.”

Arthur squints at the menu and eats a dolma, really wishing he didn’t have to listen to her, let alone converse. “Hm,” he grunts in response, pretending to be engrossed in the decision between the seared tuna, the goat’s cheese souffle or the chicken terrine for entree.

“Having trouble?” a voice behind him makes him jump, and Merlin grins as Arthur peers up at him. A peculiar sort of joy and relief floods through Arthur – now he doesn’t have to keep hunting the crowd for him.

“I just snuck over to see Gaius,” Merlin admits. “He’s an old family friend. What do you think of the menu, though?” He seems genuinely interested in Arthur’s opinion, placing an arm across the back of his chair to lean down and talk to him better. His eyes are very blue, and Arthur suddenly feels very faint.

When Merlin simply smiles down at him, Arthur regretfully tears his eyes away from him and looks down at his menu once more.

“It looks good,” he allows. He’d been caught up about the entree, but the mains options are hard to choose from too – spanakopita, lamb meatballs or swordfish, and he doesn’t dare look at the desserts because now he’s starving. “I heartily approve.”

Merlin beams, “I went with a Greek theme – they’re off there for their honeymoon for 25 days at the end of the month, so it seemed fitting.”

“You do weddings?” Vivian interrupts. “Oh my gosh, Ar _thur_ , why didn’t you say?” She whacks his arm with her napkin before rounding on Merlin.

“Do ours.”

Merlin blinks in surprise, his eyes flicking from Arthur to Vivian and a sudden flush taking over his cheeks. “Oh. Oh. You’re engaged, you two?”

“Yes,” Vivian chirps, thrusting her hand and the ring in his face.

“Lovely,” Merlin smiles, examining the ring. “When are you getting married?”

“We don’t quite know-“Arthur starts before Vivian interrupts with “October.”

“ _This_ October?” Merlin clarifies, drowning out Arthur’s surprised squeak.

“Yes. October 6th.”

“That’s soon, in wedding terms, but it can be done,” Merlin rubs his neck. “I’d be happier with a bit more time, but…”

_I’d be happier with not at all_ , Arthur thinks, before Merlin announces he’ll do it and enthusiastically shakes Vivian’s hand. Then Elyan is calling him back over and he’s off like a shot back to the bridal table as Lance and Gwen are cheered into the room.

“October,” he asks Vivian when they take their seats again, having applauded the happy couple to their seats.

“Yes,” she arches an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you know?”

“I just don’t remember us discussing it.”

“Oh,” she waves a hand, “I assumed it was obvious. We ought to get married in Autumn- “

“Why?” He asked, feeling more and more peeved about the conversation. “Since when?”

The waiters are circulating now, taking orders, and they lean in close to not be overheard.

“Autumn is best,” Vivian says soothingly, running a hand down his arm. “I don’t want to wait any longer than that. Plus it’s the most beautiful time of year, you always say, and costs are a bit lower-“She was right, sure, but why hadn’t she taken the two seconds it took to have this conversation with him before now, and put them both on the same page?

The waiter stops next to them, and they order, Arthur just points absently at whatever. He’s torn. He wants to have it out with Vivian, but he doesn’t want to talk to her – and that would cut in to time that could be better spent watching Merlin.

God he‘s creepy today.

He makes the choice to blank her and her whisperings out – which is probably exactly why it seemed like she was making plans without him – and peers over his shoulder to where Merlin is sitting between Perce and Elyan, laughing away at some joke about the menu that’s making Lance blush.

Arthur watches him for as long as he can get away with before he decides its time to tune back into Vivian.

“And your father’s place just makes _sense_ , don’t you think? It’s beautiful, it’s grand, it will be ours0 when he dies,” she’s insisting loudly, and next to him he feels Leon physically cringe at the insinuation of Uther dying. Arthur shoots a glance at his best friend and finds him frowning, clearly displeased.

Entrees come out then and a waitress places the souffle in front of Arthur; Leon shoots him a long unimpressed look but seems to telepathically agree that there’s not much Arthur can do to shut Vivian up without causing a scene and starting a fight. They dig into their food instead, after hearty slugs of their beer when the table toasts Gwen and Lance. Leon’s got the seared tuna and Arthur’s a bit jealous, so they trade half way through. Both dishes are delicious.

“I’ll tell Merlin you boys both approve,” Gaius laughs at them over the table.

“It’s superb!” Vivian interrupts as if the conversation had included her. “Though not _quite_ right for what we’re planning…”

“What are you planning then, dear?” Alice asks with a kind smile, since Vivian clearly wants to talk more about her plans and isn’t getting much of a response from Arthur.

“Well, just a bit less rustic, a bit more refined. Salmon, oysters, fillet mignon… all my friends are models, like me, obviously, so we don’t eat carbs… and desserts that are a little more delicate, maybe just fruits and cheeses… I mean all of these sound _delicious_ ,” she points at the honey cheesecake, the baklava and the lemon pot-de-crème. “But I just think we need to be a little more on trend and chic. More like _us_ ,” she finishes with a smile.

Leon snorts into his beer as the waiters sweep their empty plates away, “Arthur? On trend?”

Gwaine guffaws, until he abruptly starts choking on a mouthful of his wine.

“Yes, thank you, quiet now, stop wasting good wine,” Arthur scowls at him.

“But this is all lovely, I’m not criticising! It’s perfect for Lance and darling Gwen. I’m so glad Merlin’s agreed to do ours too!” Vivian beams.

Arthur flags down the waiter for more beer and shoots another long look at Merlin as he does. Why does he have to be seated with his back to him? It’s ridiculously unfair. Merlin’s leaning around Elyan and Lance to talk to Gwen, both their faces alight. Gwen is glowing and as beautiful as ever, one hand resting against Lance’s chest as she chatters away. But it’s Merlin he can’t keep his eyes off.

Morgana ruins it by calling his name, startling him. She waves him over and he’s obediently on his feet and wending his way past the ‘Chocolate Mud’ table to her, taking the long way around without really planning it, sidling awkwardly past one woman’s chair just so he can pass below Merlin’s place at the table.

Merlin exchanges a small smile with him, then Arthur’s reached his sister at the other end, who grabs his arm and hauls him down to hiss in his ear to stop being so obvious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells her huffily, straightening up and rearranging himself with all the dignity he can muster, then stealing a sip of her red wine. Ugh. He’s not that fussed on shiraz.

 “Arthur,” she says in that tone that makes him want to groan and roll his eyes. “You’re practically prostrating yourself at his feet!”

“I-“

“You are, though. Your face when you were talking to him in the line, oh my God it was adorable!” Elena chimes in from next to Morgana, being surprisingly unhelpful.

“Shhhh,” he rounds on them, eyes flicking down the table to Merlin. “He might hear you!”

“You’re more concerned about that than your fiancée hearing! Christ, Arthur!” Morgana is Not Impressed.

“Just,” he waves his hands at her in a shushing motion, which of course only enrages her further.

“Ar. _Thur_.”

“Oh, quiet woman! What am I supposed to do!”

“Go back to your seat and keep up the charade _you_ insisted on setting in motion when you put that ring on _her_ finger! Or better yet, end it!”

“How was I supposed to know- “ He cuts off when he notices Gwen watching him with a frown, worried about his agitation though she couldn’t possibly hear what he was saying. Elena, dear Elena, leans over Sefa and gets Gwen talking to them both about the honeymoon.

“Four weeks in Greece! You’ll have to tell me everything!”

Gwen launches into their itinerary and Arthur hears as much as “five days hiking in Meteora” before Morgana is snapping at him again.

“Arthur!”

“How was I supposed to know it was possible to just _see_ someone and… and…” Arthur bites back in a rush before he drops down to crouch next to her at the end of the table, suddenly overwhelmed and desperate to be out of sight of Merlin, of Vivian.

“Arthur,” Morgana leans down to him and he rests his forehead on her lavender chiffon swathed knee, overwhelmed. She rubs a hand through his hair. “Arthur, I’m telling you. You have _got_ to call off the wedding and break this ridiculous engagement before it’s too late! You’re not in love with her, as evidenced by your clearly and publicly falling in love with someone else two hours ago! Things with Vivian will never change, they’ll never get better and you’ll never love her. You’ve got to end it all now before anyone gets hurt!”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?!”

“It’s just… complicated,” he peeks out over her lap to steal another glimpse at Merlin, who’s now chatting away with Perce, using his hands to gesticulate as he talks.

“Arthur. Get off the floor,” Morgana sighs.

He heads back to his seat, despondent, but Perce waylays him as he passes, snagging Arthur’s arm in a hand the size of his face.

“What were you doing crawling about on the floor, mate!”

“Morgana dropped an earring,” Arthur lies, eyes flicking to Merlin’s face.

Merlin grins at him, “Thank God you found it, those are Swarovski crystal!”

Arthur just nods and starts to head back to his seat – the waiters are appearing with the mains, it seems, but Merlin calls him back.

“Wait a sec, Arthur!”

He’s plucking a card from his wallet and holding it out to him with a wry smile, “My details, for you and your fiancée. We ought to make an appointment sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, of course, thanks,” Arthur takes the card and salutes him with it, like a weirdo, and finally makes it back to his seat.

“Why did I see you sitting on the floor?” Gwaine wants to know, because he’s a nosy git.

“Morgana. Dropped her earring.”

“She called you over just because she dropped her earring?” Gwaine laughs, but then he’s distracted by the depositing of his swordfish in front of him, which he lets out a happy whoop over.

Arthur spears as many meatballs as can fit on his fork and shovels them into his mouth. Vivian grimaces at him over her plate of spinach, onion and feta (she’s not eating the pastry from her spanakopita. Carbs.)

Leon quite clearly doesn’t want to hear any more about weddings, especially Vivian and Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t blame him because neither does he.

“Talk to me about City’s chances,” Leon insists of him, through a mouthful of phyllo.

They talk football until Vivian huffs and turns back to Mithian. Then, once the meal is over, there’s speeches. Elyan has them all in stitches, and his father Tom has them all in tears. By the time dessert rolls around they’re ready to eat again. Arthur is on to red wine now, a strong cab sav and he eyes his cheesecake happily before stealing a piece of Gwaine’s baklava.

Gwen and Lance must bolt down their dessert, or else they don’t eat it at all, because they’re making rounds of the tables, hugging and kissing friends and family. It’s something Arthur can’t imagine doing himself, this coming Autumn; being that joyful on his wedding day, wanting to smile and bask in happiness, rush around celebrating with his friends and loved ones. There would be nothing to celebrate.

Arthur’s just finishing his last mouthful of cream cheese and honey when the new Mr. and Mrs. Du Lac arrive at their table. Vivian and Mithian squeal fuss over Gwen’s dress and hair and makeup as Lance drops down in Vivian’s vacated seat looking tired and happy.

Merlin makes his way back over too, and finally pays his visit to Gaius. Arthur watches him over the purple floral centrepieces but tries to pretend like he’s not.

Later, there’s cake cutting, cake eating, more speeches, Gwen and Lance’s first dance. Merlin pops up next to Arthur to tell him the song is by John Legend, does Arthur want it for his wedding? Then he steals the last bit of Arthur’s cake off his plate and disappears without waiting for an answer. Arthur stares after him across the floor as he bounds over to Elena to fuss with her hair, then he goes to get himself more cake.

It’s delicious, obviously, because Gwen herself made it last night.  It’s a three-layer vanilla and earl grey tea cake with lemon curd between the layers and a lavender cream frosting, and Arthur wants to steal the whole thing off the plate and hide under the table to eat it alone.

He watches Merlin flit about for the rest of the night, hugging people, making friends, dancing, keeping an eye on Gwen, the bridesmaids, the whole run of the show, all at once. No one was on their own too long, because he’d come swooping in with a glass of champagne for them and plonk himself down for a chat. He popped next to Arthur a few times, making hilarious comments or observations, grinning at him then disappearing before he can formulate any sort of answer, suave and charming or otherwise.

Arthur doesn’t get to see much of Gwen or Lance either, though he gets one dance with the bride, and whirls her around the floor to ‘Mr Brightside’, careful to hold her off the ground so as to not trip over the train of her mermaid style dress. She laughs and laughs until he carries her back to Lance and dumps her gently into his waiting arms.

The night ends several hours later as they wave the bride and groom off and Leon, who volunteered to be the sober driver because he’s that sort of guy, shepherds Arthur, Vivian and Morgana to Arthur’s Jag. Arthur helps Vivian into the back and falls in next to her, laying his dizzy head back on the seat – the only suitable answer to his now multiples problems had been to get drunk. He’s asleep before Leon hits the M1 and somehow magically wakes up in his bed the next morning. Leon’s that sort of guy.

*

The next evening, Vivian is shocked to hear Arthur has already called Merlin to schedule an appointment. She pauses to stare at him over his black and gold marble dining table, her prawn and rocket Dutch pancake half-way to her mouth. He knows why; he’s expressed very little interest or excitement over the wedding, largely because he’s not interested or excited. Except for now, because wedding means seeing Merlin again, and there’s nothing he’s ever wanted as much.

“So, it’s for 4pm, next Wednesday, does that work for you?”

“Yes. I have a shoot at Hyde Park, but it should be done before then. Where is his office?”

“Right on Regent’s Park Road, Primrose Hill,” Arthur has the business card memorised – the font, the colours, the contact details, the layout of the words. “I can pick you up from the shoot, then?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

She still seems surprised. He carries on eating his pancakes – it’s the North London derby in a sec, so he’s eating fast in preparation of heading over to Perce and Gwaine’s to watch it – for Chelsea’s sake he really needs Arsenal to lose, but Perce was already texting him threatening to throw him out if he cheers against them.

The phone call to Merlin earlier had been both exciting and awkward. He’d typed in the number with trembling fingers and taken a deep breath to steal himself, his usual charm and confidence feeling light years away. Merlin had answered sounding tinny and distant – he was on speaker-phone, and once he’d ascertained it was Arthur he’d laughed and explained that his cat had brought a bird into the flat and let it go. Merlin was running about opening all his windows to try and shepherd the bird out and yelling at his cat as he’d talked to Arthur. He struggled to remember his schedule for the coming week, but they’d eventually settled on Wednesday, and Arthur was breathless with excitement. Merlin had shouted ‘See you then!’ and then hung up with a howl of ‘Kilgarrah no! Drop him!’. Arthur had walked about with a stupid grin on his face for hours after.

“So,” he prompts, through a mouthful of bacon, spinach and pancake, already eyeing up the box with the pear and cinnamon one he’s having for dessert. “What thoughts have we got so far?”

Her face lights up, and he realises she hasn’t smiled properly in a few weeks, at least not in his presence. That’s his fault, he knows, as his stomach drops a little. He’s been so unenthusiastic about the wedding and disassociated from her. There’s only one way that could make her feel and hurting her is not what he wants. She launches into her describing her plans and he watches her face, her joy, and feels so sick with guilt he almost can’t swallow his mouthful.

If he is going to go through with this, which up until a week ago he was resigned to do, then he must commit properly, show an interest. But that lingering hesitancy in the back of head, the reluctance, has turned to full-blown aversion. He didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t see any way out. Merlin had thrown things into disarray in one evening and with a handful of conversations. Now, through planning his wedding, he can see Merlin more and more, to spend time with him. The drawback is the result, a wedding ceremony that marries him to a woman he doesn’t love for the rest of his life.

It didn’t feel right. Didn’t Vivian deserve better? Didn’t he?

Vivian was still talking, and he tunes back in, his heart thumping at the thought of seeing Merlin again in just three more days.

“… so that’s going to be the overall theme, I think. Do you like it?”

“Yes, sure,” he hadn’t been listening. “So… the main colour would be?”

She stares at him like he’s half-wit, “Champagne!”

“Got it. And it will all be at Father’s estate?” He’s scrambling to remember any other details he’s heard her mention over the last few weeks so that he can pretend he’s been paying attention. “Three bridesmaids and three groomsmen… and 200 guests.”

“Yes,” she beams, pleased. “Who will you pick for the bridal party?”

“Leon’s my best man,” Arthur answers immediately, even though he hasn’t asked him yet, though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to. “And Gwaine and Lance.”

“Not Elyan, for Mith’s sake?” Vivian pouts.

“I love Elyan,” Arthur replies, “But I’ve known both Gwaine and Lance since high school and the four of us have been mates ever since. They’re too important to me to leave aside.”

“Well, what about Percival? You know that Morgause likes him.”

Arthur gapes at her, astounded, before saying slowly, “Perce is with Gwaine. They’ve been together for four years!”

“Yes, but he’s bi, isn’t he?” Vivian says patiently.

“So, you think that means Morgause has a chance to just… seduce him away!?” Arthur squawks.

“Well, he might like her too! Look, I’m having Sophia as my maid of honour, and you’re having Leon, which is fine because they’ll look good together. And of course, I thought having Mith, you’d have thought to have Elyan! And then Percival and Morgause, don’t you think they just fit? They’ll photograph so nicely side by side.”

“You think we should pick our bridal party based on how they’ll all look together in the photos, and whether or not they’re dating?” Arthur asks faintly.

“I mean… don’t you want our pictures to look good!? Mith is taller than Lance and Morgause and Gwaine hate each other-“ She breaks off when he stands abruptly from the table, shunting his chair back.

“I can’t talk about this anymore. I can’t believe you!” he spits at her. “I’m having Leon, Lance and Gwaine. I don’t give a flying fuck how the photos look or that Morgause is crazy, on such a day I need them, so I am having them.”

He was out the door in the next breath, shrugging into his brown leather jacket and snagging his keys as he goes. He’s down the stairs, through the gate and over the road to his red Jag before he knows what he’s doing. Then he gets in and drives without thinking to Gwaine and Percy’s flat. He blinks up at the building, very dull and furious all at once. Gwaine’s a model and Perce is a professional rugby player for the Harlequins. And England. So, they had a heck of a nice place, which unfortunately is in Islington, where Perce insists on living for maximum Arsenal proximity, because he is trash.

“Do you hate Morgause?” He demands of Gwaine when he lets him in to the chess-board patterned tile entryway.

“Can’t stand her, she’s a creepy egotistical maniac,” Gwaine replies cheerily, as he disappears through the arched doorway to the kitchen, the smell of some sort of stew floating from that direction.

Perce is yawning on the couch and raises a hand when Arthur storms into the lounge, grabbing his elbow and giving it a squeeze in greeting. Arthur pitches himself onto the olive-green armchair opposite him and sulks.

“Morgause wants to bone you,” he tells him.

Perce doesn’t bat an eye, or look away from the telly, simply grunts, “Don’t tell Gwaine, he can’t stand her.”

Arthur fills Perce in on his fight with Vivian. Perce even mutes the derby for him, which is something. By the time Gwaine comes in with three bowls of lamb and plum stew, three beers and a smirk because he could hear them quite clearly from the kitchen, Arthur’s mostly finished.

“So, you’ve got an appointment with Merlin on Wednesday…” Perce finally speaks, before shovelling a spoonful of lamb into his mouth, the first he’s spoken since Arthur started word vomiting at him. He chews and tries again, “So. You’ve got this appointment to plan your wedding… to someone I’m not very sure you want to marry, and you certainly don’t seem sure you want to marry?”

Gwaine shoots him a surprised look at his bluntness, but Perce just looks at Arthur, patiently waiting for a response.

Arthur takes a deep breath and finally admits it out loud. “Yes.”

“Ok. Why… are you marrying her then?”

“I have to,” Arthur replies automatically. “I just have to.”

“Why?” Gwaine echoes.

This is the hard part, the part he avoids, the why, the putting it into words. “It’s just… my life. My future. It’s always been this. I inherit the company. The investors and shareholders and heads are all old, straight, married men. I have to be one of them. Vivian is… the logical solution. The answer. She’s the way I’m going to achieve what I’ve been working so hard for all my life, what I was born for! It’s a small price to pay.”

They were staring at him, Gwaine looked angry, Perce looked sad.

“Is that what you want then, to be an old, straight, married man?”

“I _have_ to. It’s got nothing to do with want, because if it was about what I _want_ , God I… She’s wrong in every capacity. But… You’re not old money, you guys don’t understand the way our world works. Vivian does. She understands the lies, the parties, the contacts, the selfishness, the fucking ridiculous act you must put on 24/7. She’s willing to live that life.”

“Yeah because she gets a great big rock on her finger, a house on Cheyne Walk and to give birth to a few Pendragon heirs? That’s not love!” Gwaine spits.

“Yes, I know,” Arthur is petulant now, though he knows it’s not fair to expect them to just accept the situation. “I never said it was love. I never said I love her.”

He doesn’t like their anger, what they’re saying, even though it’s true and he doesn’t blame them for it. But the facts remain.

“And all you have to do is keep up the charade? How is that OK Arthur? You don’t love her!? Are you really and honestly OK with throwing away what should be the happiest time of your life, your future, everything, sacrificing every chance at happiness and true love to marry _her_ ,” Gwaine is getting more and more agitated.

“Gwaine,” Arthur sighs. “I know it seems stupid and pathetic and doesn’t make sense. I’m not… happy. I’m not happy about it. But I have to do it.”

“You don’t want to marry her,” Perce says flatly. “You came here because you couldn’t be in the same room as her, because she was being unreasonable about something important to you, selfish, as ever, and unappreciative of your feelings. None of that is going to change.”

“I know it won’t.”

“So, you’re just resigning yourself to be unhappy forever?” Gwaine asks.

“Yes,” Arthur sighs. “Yes.”

Gwaine leaps up and storms out at that, disappearing into the bedroom with the slam of the door. The sound of a fist thumping against the wood echoes after him.

“So, OK, you marry her. You inherit the company. How those are mutually exclusive is beyond me, but I just carry a ball and barge into people for a living, so what would I know. You marry her, but what happens if you meet someone you truly fall in love with? Divorce? An affair? You just torture yourself forever, lonely and unloved?” Percy wonders.

“I don’t know,” Arthur thinks of Merlin, of his grin and weird haircut and the way the memory of him makes Arthur’s heart skip a few beats, and his plans and resolve flounder.

“Because that’s the point when it won’t be so simple anymore. The lie and pretence that you’ve kept up without challenge or effort will become unbearable. When you finally meet someone you love, it’s going to be impossible to be apart from them. Nothing could ever keep me from Gwaine. I couldn’t bear it, I wouldn’t allow it.”

Hearing his name, Gwaine comes storming out again, still fuming, though he offers Perce a smile.

“Do we need to move all your crap into one of the spare rooms?” He bitches at Arthur before dropping down onto Perce’s lap and continuing to eat his dinner. “Because these instances are clearly going to be frequent.”

“Maybe I’ll just bring a few changes of clothes next time I pop over.”

He goes home, eventually, full of stew and beer, and slides exhausted into bed next to Vivian, who’s awake and red-eyed. He feels awful for a myriad of reasons he won’t say because it will drive her away and he’ll both be free and lose all at once.

They talk, haltingly, and apologise, reluctantly, lying side by side on their backs without touching or looking at each other. Arthur doesn’t feel any better; the only glimmer of hope and happiness he has to hold on to is the prospect of seeing Merlin in just a few days.

*

Vivian’s still wearing her makeup from the shoot when he picks her up on Wednesday, neon green eye-shadow and dark purple lipstick, for God knows what reason. She bounds into the car beaming, Sophia waving her of from the pavement, her own eyes outlined in violent orange, lips lurid yellow. Arthur doesn’t even want to know what the heck that’s all about, so he just drives and purposefully doesn’t ask.

Arthurs heart-beat picks up in excitement and eagerness as they near Primrose Hill, Vivian chattering away about the shoot. He still hasn’t listened to a word when he puts the car in park outside a little corner shop he recognises as Gwen’s bakery, which matches the address on the card.

They climb from the car, and Arthur pokes his head through the bakery door. Gwen is behind the counter, a purple apron on, sliding some custard scrolls into a paper bag for a customer.

“Arthur,” she calls, spotting him immediately. “Come in! I know you’re on your way up to Merlin, you can take him up his order if you like, he uses the office upstairs! Can I get anything for you while you’re here?”

Vivian turns her nose up at all the sugar, fat and carbs, but Arthur immediately orders a raspberry and white chocolate brownie, a mocha tart and a long black. Gwen does him a discount and hands it all over, along with an iced finger and a cup of oolong for Merlin.

“When do you leave?” He asks her as he sips his coffee.

“Three days,” she beams, and he wishes her a safe flight and to have a great time.

He carries all the food up the stairs that lead up the back wall, which Gwen points out, Vivian clopping along behind him in her highlighter yellow pumps.

The stairs lead to a small corridor and a glass door proclaiming ‘Emrys Weddings’ in dark blue cursive script. Merlin throws the door open before they reach it and makes grabby hands for his food.

“Hi, gimme, come in!”

Merlin’s eaten half of the bun before he’s even sat down behind his desk. Merlin’s office is nice, with deep red walls and a navy-blue rug across the wooden floor-boards. His desk sits along the back wall, two chairs before it, the windows overlooking the street to his right. Along the opposite wall is a navy-blue couch and a coffee table littered with bridal magazines. The wall behind it had a large print of what looked like Snowdon.

Merlin beams at them over his desk, slurping his tea, and Vivian doesn’t even greet him, just drops into a seat opposite and launches into babble about string quartets and the colours fuchsia and gold. Merlin raises his eyebrows but starts taking notes in a spiral bound notebook, writing down everything she says without question or comment until she runs out of breath.

“Right, to recap, we’ve got the following: budget is no issue – you lucky buggers; venue is the Pendragon Hall estate in Shropshire – ceremony in the estate’s Italian themed courtyard, reception in the ballroom; theme is luxe and glam; colours are fuchsia pink and champagne gold; 200 guests not including the bridal party – for that you’ve got three bridesmaids, one red-head, one blonde, one brunette, you want them in gold, and three groomsmen in classic black tuxes; you want a custom Vera Wang and a Calvin Klein four-piece for Arthur; ; for the flowers you want peonies for the bouquets and white rose petals all down the aisle; you want a string quartet for the ceremony and full-piece orchestra for the reception for the décor you want pink peonies and crystals and gold candles and vases; and you’ve already made your registry at Harrod’s and picked your wedding bands.”

“That’s right,” Vivian simpers.

“Lucky day for me, all I need to do is source what you want – it’s a bit of a nightmare when a bride walks in, sits down and says nothing but ‘Oh, I don’t know, what do you think’ for an hour. Now, you didn’t mention catering, celebrant, cake or photographer?”

“The Hall chefs will cater,” Arthur explains, his first real words to Merlin since arriving.

“Ah, lovely. Do you want me to design a menu with you, or should I leave you and them to have at it?”

“I’d like your input,” Vivian insists. “I _think_ I know what I want, but I’m not sure. I’m caught between too many ideas – do we go with Japanese… I have many important connections in Tokyo but not everyone likes raw fish. Or we could go French, as I work a lot for Givenchy, you understand… did you happen to see their latest campaign, a new perfume? No?”

“I’ll help you figure it out,” Merlin smiles again, then forges on. “Try to keep within the parameters of the wedding itself. We could follow the Italian theme of the courtyard?”

Arthur’s eyes just about glaze over as they babble away back and forth; he’s content just to watch Merlin as he laughs or smiles, his wild gesticulating as he recounts some sort of horror story about the bride of a previous wedding not knowing she was allergic to shellfish and finding only out at her beach themed wedding. His ears only really prick up when the word ‘cake’ gets bandied about.

“I recommend Gwen, for obvious reasons, but if you’ve someone else in mind that’s not a problem.”

“Yes, Gwen, of course,” Arthur answers.

“You can discuss it and get back to me if you like,” Merlin offers, eyes flicking to Vivian, who looks surprised at hearing Arthur speak.

“No, Gwen doing the cake would be lovely, if she doesn’t mind,” Vivian smiles at him.

“She can have the use of the kitchens at the Hall, if that would be easier for her,” Arthur offers.

Merlin beams again, “Great. Let me know when you want to do a tasting and I’ll arrange it. Now, sourcing the peonies…”

All in all, they sit for well over an hour. Arthur’s hungry again, and the traffic outside is distracting. He’s got the difficult task of having barely anything to contribute to the planning, because he doesn’t care, and trying to not just sit and openly stare at Merlin’s face, because that’s creepy and obvious.

He settles for staring as much as he can, then letting his eyes dart about the room whenever Merlin glances at him. It’s dark by the time they leave, and Gwen’s bakery downstairs empty and unlit. Merlin waves them off onto the pavement and bolts the door behind him, disappearing into the dark of the shop. Only then once he’s out of sight does Arthur climb into the car, where Vivian is already waiting, and drive home.

*

It’s 8am on a Saturday in April and Arthur’s hungover as fuck in bed when Vivian, for some unholy reason, storms into the room and tears back the curtains.

Arthur groans and pulls a pillow over his eyes.

“Whaaaa?”

His mouth feels full of cotton wool and the room spins when he opens his eyes to find Vivian standing over him, her eyes narrow and hands on her hips.

“Get up! I’ve been calling to you for ages!”

“Whyyyy?” He’s about to throw up just having to talk.

“Merlin will be here in ten minutes! What are you even doing!? I told you not to stay out late, so why were you only pouring yourself in at 3am! It’s not like you don’t see Gwaine and Percival practically every day!”

Arthur’s eyes fly open at the mention of Merlin’s name, the light of morning filtering golden into the room through the yellow drapes and blinding him.

“Merlin? What? Why?” He sits up, head spinning, and stumbles out of bed, desperately needing the bathroom before he realises, he hasn’t heard the answer.

Vivian is staring at him with horrified eyes, possibly partially because he’s naked, sweating and pale, but mostly because apparently, they had some sort of trip planned out to his father’s estate to sort out wedding details that he’s clearly forgotten. For the weekend. With Merlin. Arthur feels too sick and furious to fight – Vivian hadn’t said anything about a weekend trip, nor that Merlin would be accompanying them. He would remember anything to do with Merlin, anything at all.

In the shower Arthur sags against the wall, shivering under the warm water, while Vivian stomps around in the walk-in wardrobe, allegedly because she’s packing an overnight bag for him but probably because she wants to make noise and throw his shit now that she’s mad at him.

He comes out in a towel to struggle into some clothes just as the door-bell rings and five minutes later they’re all piled in his car, Vivian climbing into the front seat as Arthur piles her two suitcases into the boot and Merlin settling in the back with a small duffle bag and a polite smile.

“This is going to be so fun!” Vivian squeals, and Arthur winces before pulling his sunglasses on and taking a huge gulp of coffee from his travel mug that he almost immediately wants to bring up.

Merlin meets his eye in the rear-view mirror and they share a grin.

The car trip was hell; Arthur cranked up the AC and took huge breaths when the dizziness overwhelmed him. Whenever he felt too bad, he’d sneak a look at Merlin in the mirror and that would distract him so much from the urge to throw up that he’d find himself smiling for a good ten minutes instead, more buoyant and excited than he’s even been to drive to the Hall. Even listening to Vivian’s nattering away and selfish comments was more bearable with Merlin’s voice in the background too.

Merlin is hilarious, quick-witted and kind – the opposite of Vivian, who could say nothing that if it wasn’t vain and self-centred and she no sense of humour unless it was making fun of or teasing others. Everything was problem or a big deal for her; small issues were panicked about, and big problems were only dealt with via drama-filled tantrums. So naturally every aspect of the wedding has been a stress or difficulty for her, whereas Merlin was handling everything with calm professionalism and gentle smiles as he navigated her through options and choices.

By the time they were heading up the winding driveway to the Hall, between the two of them Merlin and Vivian had settled on songs for before and after the ceremony, the colour schemes for the invitations, place-holders, seating chart and table cards, what the centrepieces would comprise of and the style of dress she wanted. Merlin had tried to include Arthur, but he hadn’t been too interested – the wedding was a vague, surreal thing in his head, not real, just pretend.

Then the house was before them, grand on the horizon and Uther came down the steps, his arms already outstretched for his son as they all clamber from the car. Arthur greets him with genuine pleasure.

Uther was much more jovial now he was nearing retirement – he’d lost the hard business edge and spent his days pottering about in the gardens and grounds, largely terrorising the gardeners and cooks – he’d gone organic. And vegan. He only came into London for very important meetings and only if Arthur begged for an hour down the phone before Morgana got on the line and yelled at him.

“Father, this is Merlin, our wedding planner. A friend of Lance and Gwen’s.”

Uther greets Merlin and leads him into the house, already espousing vegan food for the wedding menu with Vivian at their heels, leaving Arthur to follow with all the luggage.

He rescues Merlin from his father’s rabbiting on about quinoa and ancient grains, grabbing his skinny elbow and hauling him along behind him up the stairs, the suitcases under his other arm.

When they’re finally alone upstairs he doesn’t let go of Merlin’s arm, just leads him all the way to Grey bedroom, where he’ll stay. Merlin pulls away from Arthur slowly, putting his bag on the armchair by the bed and surveying the room in shock.

“This is bigger than my flat!”

“There’s an ensuite… I hope you’ll be comfortable…” Arthur trails off, trying not to blush at how ostentatious it must seem, but Merlin is beaming as he flops down on the white bedspread.

“It’s brilliant!”

It _is_ a nice room – the walls are dove grey with crown moulding and a silver and crystal chandelier hangs over the centre of the room. The bed is a king, made up with crisp white sheets and a feather bedspread. An archway in the wall leads to the bathroom – a grey clawfoot bathtub sits alongside a huge walk-in shower. The second half of the main room has a large white couch in front of a fireplace and a large desk that looks out over the grounds for the occupant to appreciate the view of the gardens that slope down to the river in the distance and the forest beyond.

Arthur wants to stay with him in this room forever, but Vivian’s suitcases are as heavy as his eyes, and his head is spinning. He needs to eat and sleep.

“Feel free to explore the house. Dinner is at 6:30 in the blue dining room.”

Merlin sits up and settles into a cross-legged position on the bed, rubbing at his hair absently.

“You guys have so many of each room that you have to refer to them by colour?”

Arthur blushes again, opens his mouth and closes it as Merlin peals with laughter, and if Arthur doesn’t leave the room now, he won’t at all.

He gives Merlin an awkward wave and heads up one more floor to his room, putting Vivian’s cases down inside the closet. He falls onto his bed and is asleep before he even remembers he wanted to eat.

He wakes a few hours later, groggy, to the dusk evening light and Vivian shaking his arm.

“Come on,” she chirps, as she moved away from the bed to change into a midnight blue floor-length dress. “Dinner!”

“Hon, is it that formal?” He asks as he rolls out of bed. “I’m not sure if Merlin has that sort of stuff with him…”

“Oh,” she pauses, then starts taking off her jewellery and pulling off her shoes. “Well I don’t want him to feel out of place.”

It’s surprisingly thoughtful of her – she changes into tailored cream trousers and a wine-red peplum style blouse with matching heels – how she had shoes in every colour to match every outfit always amazes him.

He himself struggles into a clean set of clothes – nothing anywhere near as fancy as hers, just jeans a button-up shirt, and ignores her displeased huff as he led the way downstairs.

Dinner is surprisingly good fun. He arrives to find Merlin and his father already engrossed in conversation over glasses of pinot gris, chatting away like old friends about what sort of wine was most popular at weddings. The food was as superb as ever – the chefs seemed to enjoy having more mouths to feed than just his father and his latest fad. They started with an exquisite seafood bisque, full of crab meat, prawns and scallops. Vivian insisted that it was filling enough for her and refused the main meal, which Arthur tried not to let rub him too badly the wrong way – a lot of effort and money went into the meals here and he couldn’t shake his annoyance that that had been wasted now, along with the chefs effort and time. It was delicious anyway, salmon with a fresh radish salad and hand cut chips fried in garlic butter. Vivian eventually agreed to a few bites of the salmon when Merlin starts talking about the health benefits of fish for skin and hair. He then regales them with a story, as their glasses are being filled with a fine rosé, of a wedding he’d organised recently where the groom’s brother had gotten utterly trashed and fell onto the cake, leaving an imprint of his face and hair in the fondant.

Uther roars with laughter and seems to want to monopolise all of Merlin’s time and attention – he was probably a little lonely, Arthur realised with a pang, and the new face was as fun for him as it was torment for Arthur.

Dessert is perfect, and Arthur announces he wants a buffet entirely of the chocolate they’re being served at the wedding, just to make Gilli, their baker and desserts-chef, beam with pride as he passes around a plate of his hand-made truffles to accompany his orange and chocolate tart. Merlin grins at Arthur over the table, which makes Arthur’s heart skip and his stomach flutter. Vivian refuses the tart, so Arthur eats her slice, not feeling the slightest bit of guilt – being kind wasn’t hard especially when it extended to delicious food.

They all head to the drawing room after, settling before the fireplace with brandies, with Uther stealing Vivian away to talk guests and where everyone would be staying. Even a house as large as Pendragon Hall couldn’t accommodate everyone. The local village had two pubs with rooms, but still, other options had to be explored. This left Merlin and Arthur alone.

“How are you feeling?” Merlin asked, smiling as he sipped his brandy. “Nervous? Excited? Must be nice to be so familiar with venue!”

“Er…” _Uninterested?_   _Regretful?_

Merlin just smiled, “It’s OK to feel overwhelmed.”

_What about underwhelmed_?

“It all feels very surreal. I can’t quite believe it’s really going to happen.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind a bit more of your input, it’s your wedding too!”

“Oh, I don’t really care,” Arthur says before he can help himself.

Merlin frowns a little before he forges on, “Things like the suits, the music, the food – those are typical groom-necessary activities.”

“I guess,” God he does not want to talk about this damn wedding anymore. “What made you get into this as business?” He knows surprisingly little about the man who’s become the single bright spot in his life.

“I…” Merlin looks surprised, settles back in the red leather armchair a little, face taking on a pink glow. “I studied business and events management at Uni, had the idea with Gwen to go in on what’s now her bakery and catering business. We wound up going in on the premises, split the rent and decided to use the offices upstairs for something more. I had planned a few weddings for friends and friends of friends. Just basic backyard stuff. It all built from there.”

“It must be very fulfilling, to help people out with such an occasion.”

“It is,” Merlin beams. “The best day of anyone’s life, hopefully! But getting to plan weddings is the most fun – getting a couple to really express themselves, how they met, what they enjoy together. It’s more than just colour schemes, fancy food and pretty decorations. The party at the end is just a sweet bonus.”

Arthur believes him, but the thought of his wedding to Vivian reflecting _him_ is laughable.

“At any rate,” Merlin carries on. “We’ll crack on with it tomorrow, should manage to get a lot ticked off.”

He smiles, again, and Arthur’s heart flips, again.

*

Arthur wakes up buzzing and buoyant the next morning, down for a run through the grounds and the track through the forest at 6am. He’s showered and eating breakfast in the dining room when his father comes down in his dressing gown.

Uther beams at him as he enters the room, “My boy! How pleased I am to catch you alone.”

Arthur shovels another mouthful of scrambled egg into his mouth before asking “Why?”

“Well,” Uther settles next to him and a maid brings him a fresh fruit salad with muesli, his apparent usual nowadays, and cup of black coffee. “I just so rarely get to see you, or your sister, the two of you so busy in London with the company, of course.”

“Yes,” Arthur pours himself more coffee and gives his father’s wrist a squeeze. “I wish I could spend more time here. I always seem to forget how beautiful and peaceful it is.”

“Perfect for a wedding!”

“Certainly.” _Just wish it wasn’t this one. Wish it wasn’t to her_.

It’s good to spend time with his father; he fills him in the on the company, especially the plans to launch another radio show; they chat about Morgana and her latest bloke, a moody young graphic designer named Mordred who was highly in-demand and on-trend that she didn’t even seem to particularly like. But then, inevitably, Uther got on to the wedding, as Arthur could tell he’d been waiting to do.

“Merlin seems like a cracking fellow.”

“Yes, he’s very nice.”

“He and Vivian seem to be getting a lot hashed out.”

“Seem to be. Yes.”

“And how are you finding it all? Scary?”

“Yes,” Arthur answers, off-guard, before he can catch himself. “Ah, I mean, overwhelming. A lot to consider.”

“You _are_ excited though?” Uther stares hard at him over his coffee cup. “It’s just… I have to be honest son, you don’t seem excited. Or interested. Not in the wedding. And to be perfectly straight with you, not in Vivian. You don’t spend much time with her, barely pay her any attention… you hardly even _look_ at her.”

Arthur opens his mouth, guilty and flushing at being caught, denial on the tip of his tongue, when Merlin comes ambling in, in skinny jeans and surprisingly tight blue tee shirt. He’s all long limbs and bright smile and Arthur’s stomach lurches at the sight of him, brain going blank, unable to say anything at all.

“Morning,” Merlin says cheerfully, not noticing the way Uther is staring hard at his son’s dumb-struck expression. “What time does Vivian usually get up?”

“Ah, no idea, really. I’ll get her up before too long.”

A maid appears and places a plate of eggs benedict and huge mug of coffee before Merlin, who tucks in happily.

“We’ve a lot to get through in just one day,” he explains to Arthur through a mouthful of spinach and egg. “It’s going to be a lot easier for me to source locally, things like flowers, the orchestra, decorations, rather than get everything transported up from London. I’ve made a few enquiries, but it’s down to you guys to make the overall choices.”

“Right. Well I’m sure Vivian can- “

“You too!” Merlin laughs. “You’re the groom, stop passing the buck!”

Vivian appears then as if summoned, heels clicking as she sweeps in and kisses Arthur’s cheek before she sits down.

She’s brought an egg-white omelette loaded with veg and green tea. Arthur supresses a shudder.

After everyone’s done eating Uther disappears out to the garden and the others head to the west conservatory that overlooks the ceremony site, the Italian themed inner courtyard.

“This is stunning,” Merlin gasps as he rushes to the window to stare out. It certainly a heck of a view, and Arthur is secretly proud and pleased he likes it so much, because he does too. The fountain in the middle of the courtyard, a statue of Neptune holding his trident in the centre, has water cascading into the air from its prongs. The tiles are marbled white and sand colour which the courtyard wall matched. Wisteria vines lattice like a roof across the open top and drape down to hang from the arches in the walls. Pots of lemon, orange and olive trees are dotted about and altogether it was utterly austere and beautiful.

“It’s going to be perfect,” Vivian gushes as she settles on a couch looking out. “So, where shall we start?”

Merlin sits next to her and pulls out some papers from his leather satchel, leaving Arthur to perch on a footstool.

“I wanted to make sure we weren’t missing anything important. You seem to have a good idea, Vivian, of what you want. But it’s important that the wedding reflects you both, as a couple, and Arthur’s been mentally absent from the whole affair. So! I’ve got this bit of a quiz for you to fill out.”

“Oh! Fun!” Vivian squeals, at the same time as Arthur deadpans “What.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur, it doesn’t hurt. It’s just a few questions to assess your likes and dislikes, needs and wants, yada yada yada. Just so I can make the day as much for you as possible.”

“What if we want different things?” Arthur says before he can help himself.

Merlin looks a little taken aback. Vivian looks downright murderous.

“We don’t,” she all but hisses in a clipped tone.

“Ah,” Merlin interjects, laying a gentle hand on her arm. “Well, I would hope you’ve discussed some things already?”

“Yes, of course, just, ah, just wondering,” Arthur backtracks, feeling a little guilty.

“Fill it out, and we’ll see how we get on. It’s not hard, just multi-choice. Just pick what you like, as an individual, which might not necessarily be what you would choose as a couple or what you’ve picked so far for this wedding. Pick what appeals most to you on your own.”

Arthur balances the paper on his knee and takes the pro-offered ballpoint, eyes scanning the questions. He huffs a sigh, Vivian already busily ticking away.

  1. _What’s your dream wedding location?_
    1. _Garden_
    2. _Forest_
    3. _Beach_
    4. _Ballroom_



Sighing again he ticks forest – it sounds the most peaceful, which is what he wants the more he thinks about it – then moves on to the next question.

  1. _What flowers best reflect your personal style?_
    1. _Purple hydrangeas_
    2. _White anemones_
    3. _Yellow dahlias_
    4. _Red roses_



He groans out loud before exclaiming “I don’t even know what these look like!” Merlin just laughs at him and pulls up pictures on his phone. Arthur eventually picks the anemones. They look nice.

The next question is easy, and he ticks ideal guest numbers as between 50 and 100 without thinking. Realistically, Vivian’s demand of 200 is ridiculous and he wonders if it’s something they ought to readdress.

He carries on down the quiz, trying to pick what he wants the most – an intimate ceremony, ideally in nature, that will make him feel relaxed and able to focus on enjoying what should be the most important and happiest day of his life, surrounded by people he loves. He knew what he didn’t want – pomp and farce and false, people who didn’t really care about him, who he’d possibly never met before. He didn’t want glitz and glam, he didn’t want a registry with Harrod’s and a bottle of champagne as favours for each guest. He didn’t want Vivian, though he knew that already. He almost wishes he did because that is why they’re all sitting here. What a waste of time, but the proximity to Merlin could never be a bad thing.

As he continues his heart sinks further as he knows Vivian will have the opposite sorts of answers, and that Merlin is going to see that and will inevitably comment on it, and Arthur is going to have to start admitting out loud how incompatible they are. Question 7 asks about his ideal honeymoon location – he ticks a cottage in the Scottish highlands, imagining rambling walks and the serenity, scotch by the fire, the lochs, the hills and valleys and all that sky, but he knows that Vivian will have selected the tropical island, where she could show off her body sunbathing in skimpy bikinis, take staged and posed photos of herself for Instagram and get trashed on potent cocktails. Question 10 asks what flavour cake he would prefer out of lemon syrup, sponge with berries and cream, chocolate mud or carrot. He ticks the berries and cream, liking the rustic simplicity, and can’t help but smirk when he wonders what Vivian has picked – maybe that was the question she’d pursed her lips and scrunched her nose over earlier. Vivian doesn’t eat cake.

Merlin waits with a small smile, but Vivian, who finished around when Arthur was on question four, is tapping her foot so impatiently that it irritates Arthur into rushing and he vindictively makes his last selections out of spite. He triumphantly thrusts the paper in Merlin’s face when he’s done.

“There!”

“Well done,” Merlin laughs as he begins to compare them. “Ok… quite a lot of differences here between you two but that’s alright, compromise is key… these are all just guides, of course you don’t _have_ to decide between these options… like between ‘The way you look tonight’ and ‘Thinking out loud’ for the first dance, there’s millions of other songs.”

“We’ve already picked the song, and that Ed Sheeran one is the most like it!” Vivian snaps as she rounds on Arthur. “Why would you pick something completely different!?”

“Who’s Ed Sheeran? And since when had we picked the song!?”

“The other day! I said I wanted Christina Perri!”

“I don’t remember! What did I say?”

“Nothing, you weren’t listening, as usual!”

“Then how was it an agreement from a reciprocal conversation!?”

“Oh, don’t use big words with me, you know it makes me feel- “

Merlin waves his arms between them to get them to stop arguing, and Arthur sinks back onto his stool feeling embarrassed and angry. _This_ is why he doesn’t bloody talk to her, all they do is fight.

“Why don’t you two sit down together and go back over everything without me?” Merlin suggests, standing and brushing down his jeans. “No, Vivian, it doesn’t matter if you think you already have, because Arthur clearly disagrees. Start again. And try to come up with some compromises!”

He pats Arthur on the head as he departs, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

An hour and a half later, when Merlin reappears with a tray bearing coffee and a freshly made ginger slice, they’ve gotten practically nowhere. Vivian had pouted and whimpered her way through every sentence while Arthur couldn’t move past the fact that she seemed to have had all these imaginary ‘wedding planning’ conversations with herself and refused to acknowledge that she’d made all their supposed plans entirely alone.

Merlin just sighs at them, plonks himself down with a ring-binder he’d tucked under his arm, flips to the first page and announces they are starting over from the beginning again and he is the referee. Vivian huffs and crosses her legs, and Arthur finds himself just agreeing to most things she says just to shut her up and hurry the conversation along. Merlin seems to catch on, frowning at him when he agrees without argument to Vivian’s choices of flowers, and outright sighing when agrees to a horse-drawn carriage bringing Vivian to the ceremony from the hotel she would be staying at just down the road.

Merlin ends by drawing up a list of local business to source quotes from, and then they all head out to go upstairs to repack and go home. Vivian strides off ahead, pleased to have her way. But Merlin catches Arthur at the bottom of the stairs, gripping his arm, eyebrows drawn in concern.

“What on earth was all that?”

Arthur thrills at the touch but can’t quite meet Merlin’s eyes. He glances quickly up the marble stairs to confirm that Vivian is out of ear-shot, then leans down to Merlin’s ear.

“Look, it’s just easiest. I give her what she wants, she leaves me alone.”

“What the hell kind of relationship is that!? Is this some joke!?” Merlin looks horrified before he breaks off, looking a bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. I just… you’re a nice guy, and it’s uncomfortable to see her walk all over you. You’re quite clearly very different people – look from what I’ve observed you have nothing in common, barely any of the same tastes… I just don’t get any feeling between the two of you…”

 “It’s just a wedding, mate. I’m not too bothered about how it happens, so long as it happens. If that means she gets a custom Vera Wang that costs hundreds of thousands, and we strew diamonds down the aisle and eat caviar and lobster tail, and everyone takes home an original Jackson Pollock as a favour, then so be it! So long as it happens, I just don’t care about anything else.”

“How romantic,” Merlin still looks suspicious and angry.

“Just… plan this wedding, please, get my fiancée whatever she asks for, I’ll pay anything you need,” Arthur can’t look at him anymore, and rushes off upstairs, already regretting having said too much.

*

The month of June slides by with Arthur avoiding any contact with Merlin. He decides it’s for the best, the only real option, since any mention of his name sends him into an entirely unacceptable and unavoidable flurry of excitement and joy. He can’t bear to risk whatever clapping eyes on him would do. He’s made his choice to marry Vivian and not even Merlin, with his cheekbones and humour and gentleness can make him budge on that.

With the wedding fast approaching and after several arguments, Arthur and Vivian sort out a guest list and send it to Merlin, who emails them back the invitation drafts for approval. There were three designs to choose between, but their premise is the same – he’s getting married to Vivian at 3 o’clock in the afternoon on October the 6th at his father’s estate, ceremony in the Italian courtyard, reception to follow in the ballroom.

It makes him nauseous, and he tries not to show he’s breathing too heavily while next to him on the couch Vivian fusses over the differences in the designs – all pale glittery gold with fuchsia print, but folded differently, with different lettering styles. Arthur breathes deeply through his nose, trying to calm his racing heart.

“Do you think this is fancy enough?” Vivian waves her tablet under his nose, one of Merlin’s electronic invitations on the screen. Arthur squints at the screen, which shows a single piece of card, the script of calligraphy barely legible.

“I can hardly read it,” Arthur mumbles. “Is that a ‘j’ or a ‘y’?”

“Ugh,” Vivian huffs. “It’s clearly a ‘y’, it’s at the end of the word Saturday, honestly Arthur.”

“Oh right.”

“What about this one?” She swipes to the next, which looks slightly more legible, and is designed to be unrolled like a scroll, tied with a pink ribbon.

“Seems fine,” Arthur’s sick of thinking about it, doesn’t even care about seeing the third option. “Very regal.”

“Great! I’ll tell him we pick that.”

Arthur grunts in response and goes back to his PlayStation, God of War paused and waiting. It’s 8pm on a Thursday, work has been busy with the launch of a new radio station and he just wants to shut down and relax, not think about the wedding or how he can’t escape Vivian, who’s still perched next to him, now babbling away down the phone to Sophia. He especially can’t bear to think about Merlin and how much he misses him, how much he hated the anger on Merlin’s face when they’d stood at the bottom of the staircase, which had stayed in place all the way through the four-hour drive home.

He knows it isn’t fair to expect Merlin to just sit back and plan a wedding between two people who really oughtn’t be getting married. He doesn’t love Vivian and he has no intention of pretending to. She doesn’t love him either, really. It isn’t an issue, though she’d probably prefer otherwise. They didn’t speak about it outright, but it also went unspoken between them that they are OK with it. Asking Merlin to go against his morals and the point of his business is entirely unfair, so avoidance just seems best. Better to keep far away from Merlin and get him out of his system, while simultaneously not asking him to overly compromise himself by being subjected to be around him more than he had to.

Which is why it’s a surprise when Vivian interrupts his game to announce he’s got a meeting with Merlin the next day after work.

“What?” Arthur demands, too angry and quick, and she jumps at his harsh tone.

“Well I assumed-“

“Assumed what? Why?”

“I thought you’d enjoy it far more than me- “

“Enjoy what!?”

“The cake tasting! God, Arthur, do you not listen to a single thing I say!? You know I don’t eat cake, and I thought it might be fun for you, something to get you excited about the wedding and a bit more involved!”

“But I don’t want to be!” He bites back, fuming. How is he supposed to avoid Merlin if Vivian is going behind his back, arranging meetings between them without even asking him?

“Well I’m not doing it,” she spits back, crossing one leg over the other definitively, which is how come he’s pulling up outside Gwen’s bakery the next evening at 5:30pm.

Gwen comes running out to hug him before he’s even out of the car properly, sending him stumbling back against the seat. He’s seen her only a few times since her and Lance got back from the honeymoon, at a dinner party at Elyan’s, at a pub quiz at Arthur and Leon’s local and once when he’d dropped Lance home after they’d all got pissed at Gwaine and Perce’s. That had included hauling a slurring and giggly Lance up the stairs to his and Gwen’s flat. He’d knocked on the door, Lance practically hanging over his shoulder, but to his surprise Merlin had answered.

They’d stared at each other with wide eyes, dumb-struck, until Gwen had appeared to take charge of her wayward husband. Then Arthur had scarpered down the hall and out into the fresh air. Like a coward.

So, this, now, Gwen in his arms with half her hair in his ruddy mouth, is his fourth time seeing her since the day he first met Merlin at the office above, and the second time he’s seeing Merlin since his self-imposed exile from the man. He knows which one of the two he’s happier about.

Gwen leads him inside the bakery, chattering excitedly – “I’m still so excited you’re getting married Arthur, I just can’t believe it! Isn’t the planning so much fun!?”

Arthur can’t bear to answer, just pastes his fake smile to his face and nods.

“Merlin’s in his office, you head on up and I’ll bring up the cake samples in a sec. We’re just finishing them.”

With that she’s darting back behind her counter and out into the kitchen, and Arthur is heading up the stairs with legs that feel made of lead. He knocks at the door and listens to the sound reverberate around him in the small corridor before Merlin answers. They regard each other with the same tenuous hesitancy as they had that night at Gwen’s, Merlin’s eyes going wide even though he had been expecting him, Arthur’s heart leaping to his throat just at the sight of him.

“Hi,” Arthur mumbles.

“Hello,” Merlin leans on the door a moment, before moving aside to let him in. Arthur heads over to the couch and sits down. Merlin takes his time sitting next to him, and the silence lingers between them for a stretch before Merlin speaks.

“How is Vivian?”

“She seems good, excited. She’s got a show in Milan so she’s flying out tomorrow night for the week.”

“Lucky. Milan is fascinating.”

“I’m N=not sure how much sight-seeing she does, aside from where she’s shooting or walking, the trendiest restaurants, clubs and bars, and her hotel.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.”

Arthur shrugs, “It’s her life to live the way she wants.”

Merlin eyes him and seems about to speak, but Gwen sidles in the open door, a tray in her hands.

“Oh, great,” Merlin jumps up to take it from her, all long limbed and bounding. Gwen beams at them and leaves them to it, not before reminding Arthur that she can do anything, really, if he or Vivian have specific requests or flavour preferences. “And intolerances or allergies aren’t a problem either”, she calls over her shoulder as her peach coloured dress flares out the door behind her.

“Right,” Merlin smiles as he brings the tray over. “What takes your fancy?”

_You_.

“Um,” Arthur’s eyes skim the plates on the tray, all helpfully accompanied by labelled cards in Gwen’s neat, loopy handwriting. “They all look good.”

“Vivian wanted a four-tier cake, so you could have a different flavour each layer.”

“Four-tiers! Cripes. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, we have far too many damn guests to feed!”

Merlin’s lips purse, but he doesn’t comment on Arthur’s outburst. “We can theme the layers – for example, if I was doing a more rustic wedding, I’d suggest citrus or berry flavours, naked maybe,” – Arthur blanches at that word coming out of his mouth, but Merlin carries on airily. “Or if it was a beach wedding or in a hot climate, something light, vanilla, coconut… but for you and Vivian… hmm.”

Arthur starts eating cake as he watches Merlin thinking, a little enchanted by him. He starts with the vanilla cake which has a hint of something floral in the icing, lavender maybe, or rose? It’s delicious. 

Merlin starts talking when Arthur has moved on to the carrot, which is nutty and slightly spicy, and utterly delicious.

 “Ok. I’ve got it. What about a pink champagne? Gwen’s done it before, it was perfect, sort of airy and sweet. Then we can just follow the alcohol theme! We can go fruity – mojito, so rum, mint and lime; pimms with strawberry and lemon; even sangria, with red wine and berries – Oh! Or we could go chocolate – white chocolate and kahlua; dark chocolate and brandy; milk chocolate and orange liqueur…”

“It all sounds great, can I have them all?” Arthur answers, now onto the chocolate peppermint, which he scoffs in two bites.

“Or we could just go with whatever, it doesn’t have to match,” Merlin carries on, taking half of the key lime and coconut. “My favourite, she gets the lime perfect, not too sharp but not too faint,” he says with an apologetic shrug.

“What did Vivian say about the cake on the quiz?” Arthur wonders as he finishes the last half of the lime and coconut – Merlin’s right, the lime is strong until the coconut balances it, it’s brilliant.

“Uh, she picked the carrot cake, I think. She mostly went with traditional answers, and whatever was expensive and glamourous.”

He looks questioning when Arthur chuckles.

“She doesn’t eat cake,” he explains.

“I thought not, doesn’t seem her style, but still. She’s the bride, her opinion matters.”

“She can have whatever she wants,” Arthur reminds him.

Merlin rolls his eyes at that, “Well, you’re the one here, so you are at least picking the cake flavours.”

Arthur rolls his eyes back at him and tries the sponge with fresh strawberries and cream between the layers. “Would it be hard for Gwen to do one with fresh stuff like this?”

Merlin glances at the cake and shakes his head. “No, not hard, she’ll just do it as late as possible on the day. I remember you said you liked the concept.”

“It’s a bit too informal and messy for Vivian though,” Arthur has some of the chocolate mud with rich chocolate icing next – it’s fudgy and creamy all at once. “I think your first suggestions of the champagne and alcohols with either the chocolate or fruit layers is best.”

“There aren’t any of those here, so we can put a few combos together and get Gwen to make them, get you back for another tasting?”

“That sounds great,” Arthur grins, before offering Merlin half of the lemon and blueberry.

Merlin takes it with a laugh, “Nice to finally see your enthusiasm!”

“Oh, I’m always enthusiastic about cake, especially if Gwen’s made it. She did a beautiful apple and cinnamon cake for a dinner party we had a few months back.”

“Speaking of,” Merlin says, as Arthur finishes the last slice of cake in one mouthful, coffee and caramel marbled together, covered in a caramel ganache. “Impressive. Anyway, it’s nearing 7, do you fancy some actual dinner that isn’t cake?”

“Absolutely.”

They go down the road to the Pembroke Castle pub. Vivian wouldn’t be caught dead inside, let alone eating there, which is exactly why Arthur picks it. It’s also exactly why he picks the crab mac and cheese bites to start, imagining vindictively the scrunch up of her nose if she could see him eating them. He shares them with Merlin, who’s busy trying to pick a cocktail, the waitress hovering next to him with a patient smile, Arthur’s beer order already scribbled on her pad.

“What do you think?” he rounds on Arthur, who glances idly at the list.

“Oh, pornstar martini, that sounds like you.”

The waitress hides her smile behind her hand when Merlin thwacks him on the head with the menu, then orders an aviation, unfortunately.

It’s one of the best dates Arthur’s ever been on, he’s just disappointed it’s not a date.

Merlin is brilliant company, cracking jokes and witty lines with every second breath. He doesn’t care about sensibilities or being polite, is happy to tease Arthur far too merrily as they both start on the cocktails, Arthur trying a raspberry mojito in between bites of his burger and finding it really quite nice.

It’s good to finally get to know the man who’s consumed his every waking thought, and more than a few unconscious ones. It turns out Merlin was raised by his mum in Ealdor, a small village in Wales just over the border from England, only around half an hour’s drive from Arthur’s father’s estate. He had been, he confesses, a bit slack at school and continued to be so at Uni. He lives across the hall from Gwen and Lance, just down the road, in a two-bedroom flat with his lazy best mate Will, and his cat Kilgarrah, who’s a fat brown tabby that likes cheese and retching up hair balls on Merlin’s bed in the middle of the night. He plays video games in his down time, especially fantasy rpg’s, and always plays as a mage. He loves the colour blue, coffee and his mum. He hates summer and the heat and can’t handle even the mildest of spices.

“You wouldn’t do well in India, then,” Arthur notes over his second mojito.

“I’ve never been, no. I’m sure it’s fascinating and it looks like a beautiful place, but I’m not quite tempted enough. I went to Spain with Gwen and some other friends for a week or so a few years back, though, it was great! That’s about as much heat as I can do!”

“We have a villa in Spain,” Arthur notes as he drains the last of the mojito. “In Alicante, on the coast. I’ll take you one day.”

Merlin grins as him over his drink, a bramble this time. “That would be awesome! Even I wouldn’t say no to that.”

He laughs, eyes crinkling, and Arthur wonders what sort of reaction the cabin in Iceland would get him. He’s just opening his mouth to tell him about it when Merlin beats him to it, waving the waitress over for more drinks. He orders an espresso martini, and Arthur thinks its time to give in and have the caramel old-fashioned he’s been eyeing on the menu all evening.

Then Merlin’s asking about him, his life, his background, so Arthur gives in and tells him. He finds himself talking easily about things he wouldn’t usually breathe a word of to anyone willingly, except maybe Leon or his sister - about his mother who died giving birth to him; his slightly strained but loving relationship with his father; his slightly strained but loving relationship with Morgana; the boarding schools, and Eton, and Cambridge; the stress and pressure of running the company. He tells him about his townhouse in Chelsea, his beloved friends, his love of watching football and playing rugby, his equal love for drinking scotch, how much he hates rain but loves snow, and how he utterly despises people who dawdle along footpaths too slowly, especially when he’s in a rush.

Merlin eyes him over the last of his drink and points out, loudly and a bit shrill, “No mention of Vivian.”

“What?”

“You haven’t mentioned her all night, not a word. Haven’t checked your phone or called her, either.”

“Well, no need to.”

“You don’t love each other, do you?”

“No,” Arthur answers, without thinking.

Merlin’s eyes widen, “I didn’t think you’d actually admit it out loud.”

“Well, neither did I.”

“Why are you two getting married then,” Merlin looks defeated. “It just doesn’t make sense. It’s not just the completely different tastes and styles and likes and dislikes, that sort of stuff barely matters. You sit next to each other without touching, without speaking, without looking at each other! You just don’t seem to care about each other beyond getting married, God, what on earth is your home life like!? Why marry someone you don’t even like!?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business. It’s not up to you to provide us with a happy marriage,” Arthur feels cold with what he’s saying, but he needs to say it. “You’re a nice guy. You have a lot of professional integrity and the concept of planning a wedding between two people that aren’t in love must be difficult for you. But what happens after the ceremony, how we live our lives and all the reasons why our marriage does and does not work, is nothing to do with you.”

“And you’re happy with that? That’s fine to you?”

“Vivian doesn’t love me, but she understands me. I don’t need love, I just need someone who can put up with the life I need them to.”

Merlin stood up from the table, jolting it, pale and flushed all at once. “I think it’s time to call it a night,” he says shortly.

Arthur trails him to the counter but manages to side-step around him and pay while Merlin’s distracted by the basket of mints. They leave together, but with an acute distance between them, Merlin shrugging when Arthur quietly offers to walk him home, since that’s the direction of his car anyway.

“You’re not planning to drive, are you?” Merlin asks as they set off, shooting him a frostily concerned look, the streetlights making his hair glow yellow.

“No, I’ll call a cab. Come back for my car tomorrow.”

Merlin grunts, then promptly stumbles a bit over an uneven piece of the footpath. Arthurs grabs his elbow to steady him, but Merlin shakes him off, still looking angry.

“I just don’t get it,” he rounds on Arthur outside the bakery. “I just… I don’t know whether I think you’re the saddest person I’ve ever met, or the most pathetic.”

“Look,” Arthur is getting sick of this. “Judge me until you’re blue in the face, but we’re paying you to do this. If you want to quit, we can find someone else.”

Merlin steps closer to him as a gaggle of teenager’s pass, hooting and crowing about God knows what, whatever it is that makes teenagers feel the need to be loud and raucous when they’re out on the streets late as night.

“I’m not judging you!”

“You just think I’m sad and pathetic.”

“I _think_ you don’t deserve a life of misery in a loveless marriage!”

“For God’s sake!” Arthur gets up in his face, done with being criticised, given the side-eye, whispered about. “It’s not your business! I _want_ to marry Vivian. I need a wife who is beautiful and extroverted, who’s willing to marry me and put on a façade every day, who’ll come to the parties and dinners and events and charm everyone, play the stupid role! I don’t care if she only wants my money or my children or my last name!”

“You’re both despicable,” Merlin sneers, pulling out of reach and heading away down a side street, in the direction of his flat. Fuming, Arthur storms after him, their argument not over as far as he’s concerned.

“Why does it bother you! There’s surely plenty of people in loveless marriages, just because you plan the wedding doesn’t mean you’re responsible for the state of it!”

Merlin ignores him and walks faster. Arthur throws his hands up and debates just going home. But he feels frantic and excited and scared, and getting all this out is rather cathartic.

He catches Merlin at the door to his building, and trails him in, dragging on his arm to stop him in the hallway. 

“I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry to involve you in something you don’t want to do. If you want to quit, we won’t hold it against you. No hard feelings.”

“We. What _we_? You and Vivian aren’t a ‘we’, you’re a sham and fake.”

“Yes, fine. We’re a fake sham. We don’t love each other, half the time we don’t even like each other. We have nothing in common and we’re going to be miserable forever.”

“Why does it have to be that way, though? Why is that the only possibility you can see?” Merlin stares him down, lit from behind by the light. “This is what I don’t get! Wouldn’t your life be so much happier and simpler if you had someone who really loved you, who didn’t have to fake anything or put on act? It’s like that concept never even entered your thick skull!”

“I suppose it didn’t,” Arthur admits.

“ _That’s_ my problem! Vivian gains from marrying you – to be honest I don’t particularly care about her. She knows what she’s buying into, she wants the life you’re giving her, the house, the attention. But I don’t think you want it. I think you deserve real love and a happy life! So, stop snapping at me for caring about you!”

“You barely know me,” Arthur murmurs. “You don’t know anything other than that I’m rich and the heir to huge corporation and an even more humungous house; that I drive a stupidly expensive car and wish to God I could get married in small ceremony in a forest and honeymoon in a cottage in Scotland.”

“I know enough,” Merlin says, defiant. “Everyone deserves to find love. You’re rushing into a wedding for all the wrong reasons.”

“That’s my choice,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin pulls away and continues down the hall, voice echoing back in his wake, “Stop attacking me over it then! You made your bed, so lie in it; and stop hoping I’ll come up with a good enough reason to stop you! It’s not up to me to save you from yourself!”

Arthur’s nowhere near drunk enough to admit that that’s what he wants more than anything, so he stumbles out of the building and gets a taxi to Morgana’s place in Mayfair, swearing vehemently under his breath all the while.

*

Morgana gives him complete and utter stick from the second she opens her door to the second he falls asleep in her spare room, which, granted, is only a span of about 3 minutes, but still.

“Arthur, for crying out loud, you’re pathetic!” She snaps as he takes off his shoes, chinos and shirt and throws himself into bed, pulling a pillow over his head.

“I wish people would stop bloody calling me that,” he grumbles into the soft peacock blue sheets. She throws something at him in frustration that bounces lightly off his back then slams the door behind her as she leaves the room.

He falls asleep in seconds.

She drags him out for breakfast the next morning, nagging him to get out of bed, then nagging him from the other side of the bathroom door, then nagging him all the way down the footpath to the café. He stops listening after the first five minutes because she’s making good points and he just doesn’t want to hear it.

He focuses on his breakfast instead, a good old-fashioned full English, stuffing his mouth with beans and eggs while she sips peppermint tea and scowls at him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he lies when he gets sick of the death glares.

“I want you to call of this stupid bloody wedding,” she snaps as she takes some of his bacon. “And if you dare tell me it’s not my business, I will slap you here in front of everyone.”

“Of course, you care about me, so of course it’s your business, I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise. I’m just sick to death of talking about it,” he explains, offering her a bit of toast as well, which she waves away.

“To change the record, then, why don’t you instead tell me about how you turned up drunk on my doorstep mumbling about Merlin last night, hm?”

“No.”

“Oh, Arthur, you really are-“

“Don’t call me pathetic!”

“I was going to say you really are in it, aren’t you?” She looks sorry and sad, and as she fusses with her hair, running her fingers through it before dropping her head onto one hand, he sees how upset and worried she is for him.

He reaches over to comfort her, rubbing at her arm through her purple chiffon blouse.

“I’m sorry, Morgana. I really don’t know what to do.”

“Call it off!” She insists, eyes wide. “Call. It. Off.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Vivian doesn’t deserve it, not now. It’s too late.”

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Morgana grumbles, going back to her salmon bagel as Vivian appears in the café entrance, trailing Sophia and Mithian behind her, as well as Merlin, to Arthur’s horror.

“Arthur!” She rushes across the café to hug him. “I was right! I assumed you’d either stayed with Gwen and Lance or with Morg.”

Morgana winces at the nickname but pastes on a smile when Vivian turns to her.

“Yes, he showed up a bit bladdered quite late.”

“Oh, Merlin told me you two to were out on the lark!” She giggles but Merlin won’t look at him, though he greets Morgana with a smile. “You should have phoned!”

“Sorry,” he feels a bit bad – under her dramatic act there was a genuine relief in her eyes. “Sorry,” he says again, pecking her cheek. He may not love her but hurting or worrying her through his own lack of thought is hardly fair.

He sees Merlin roll his eyes behind the girls’ backs and exchange a long glance with Morgana, who returns it with raised eyebrows, and he’s angry all over again.

“Hadn’t we better get on, Morgause is waiting,” Mithian says, glancing at the time on her phone.

“Oh, yes, come on Viv, the champagne is calling,” Sophia wraps a possessive arm around Vivian’s waist and starts hustling her towards the door.

“Where are you off to?” Arthur wonders.

“Dress fittings,” Merlin tells him, face impassive, as he holds the door open for the giggling women. Then he’s gone without a backwards glance.

Arthur wants to go after him, to talk to him, to apologise, to just look at him.

Suddenly not hungry, he gives Morgana a kiss on the cheek, pays for them at the counter and heads out. It’s disgustingly hot outside, and it hits him in the face. He groans and dawdles down the pavement as he waits to spot a taxi, last night’s white tee-shirt already beginning to stick to him. He makes it home about an hour later, showers, drinks a cup of tea and throws himself into bed, thinking of Merlin the whole time. The anger and the desire mix in confusion in his stomach and brain and he just lays there in defeat, feeling muddled and sad.

Vivian comes home at about 5pm., flushed and excited, trying to get him to guess details about her dress. He pays her half a mind as he cooks tea, pasta carbonara with bacon, coated with an egg and cheese mix, which Vivian is obsessed with even though she pretends not to eat carbs. He plays along with her guessing game enough to discover that her dress is a strapless and beaded ballgown. She calls halt to the game then, not wanting to give away too much, and shoves her phone under his nose to start showing him photos of the bridesmaids in their dresses, forcing him to duck under her hand to see what he’s doing, since he was about to add the eggs and cheese to the warm pasta.

“Vivian!” he snaps. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of this!”

She backs off looking wounded, and his anger turns to regret instantly. “I’m sorry for shouting. It’s just trying I’m trying to cook here, I need to see what I’m doing.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I just wanted to show you…”

“Show me while we eat, then, it’s nearly done,” he tries to keep his voice gentle but he’s so sick of her, sick of this charade. None of it’s her fault – he’d asked her out, he’s dated her for three years, he put that ring on her finger 7 months ago. Until Merlin he thought he could live with it, live with her, but as the weeks tick down and the wedding gets closer, he’s finding it harder and harder, and really shouldn’t he just admit he can’t go through with this?

Does his desperation to not hurt her really justify marrying her, when all he wants is someone else?

He could marry Merlin in a heartbeat, the thought comes to him as Vivian swipes through the photos as they eat, tilting the phone so he can she. He would marry Merlin in the next second, if he could, if Merlin wanted to, wanted him back.

God, he’s in a mess.

He scrubs at his face with his hands as Vivian keeps chattering in his ear – “and then Merlin suggested the convertible styles, because they’ve all got such different shoulder widths and bust sizes…”

Arthur’s ears prick up at the name and he glances up at the camera. It’s a picture of Merlin and Mithian, Mith beaming at the camera, Merlin standing behind her, adjusting the straps on her champagne gold dress, eyebrows furrowed in concentration but a soft smile on his face.

“So, what do you think?”

“Lovely,” Arthur murmurs, as Vivian swipes to the next photo, of all three bridesmaids pinned into the same dresses but with different necklines.

“Isn’t it so exciting,” Vivian squeals at him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Merlin says the invitations will be sent to us by Friday, we can check them over the weekend, and he’ll mail them out next week for us!”

Arthur braces his hands against her back as his heart sinks.

*

The invitations are in a neat bundle on his front steps when he gets home from work on Thursday, rushing because he’s meeting Leon at the gym in ten minutes. He scoops them up as he charges inside and up the stairs to the master on the top floor, dropping them on the bed with his suit jacket and rifling through his drawers for his gym gear. It’s only when he’s clattering back downstairs that he realises what they must be, which is how he’s still sitting on the bed holding the opened package, 135 invitations on his knee, all beautifully designed, addressed to couples or individuals, occasionally to whole families, plus 10 blanks in case of mistakes.

Merlin’s scribbled a quick note – _A & V, let me know if any problems, or else I’ll retrieve Mon, M_. Arthur’s still tracing the letter M with his fingertip when Leon calls, confused as to why he’s half an hour late.

They don’t go to the gym. Instead they sit on a bench near Albert Bridge and stare at the Thames, until Arthur can get the courage to start talking.

“I don’t want to marry Vivian. The invitations came today. This is one huge mistake.”

Leon regards him carefully, choosing his words slowly, “You seemed alright with it, when you first had the idea to propose and in the months after. I know the relationship between you two is… unconventional. But you’ve been pretty determined up until recently.”

“I was alright with it until Gwen and Lance’s wedding.”

“Ah. And what changed for you, at Gwen and Lance’s wedding?” Leon’s eyes say he already knows, but he’s Arthur best friend so Arthur has to say it.

“I saw Merlin.”

“And now it’s all gone ka-boom,” Leon mimes an explosion with his hands.

“Something like that. I wanted to go through with it, I would have put up with being with her, then I met him. Every time I talk myself into carrying on and sticking it out, I see him or talk to him or someone says his name, and I know I have to end the engagement and call of the wedding. Then I’ll come home to Vivian, who _is_ very dear to me, or I’ll have a stakeholder meeting at the company, or father will call… and I convince myself I can’t stop it all now. It’s like a cycle… I just… I’m running out of time. And I don’t know what to do.”

Leon puts an arm around his shoulders, and like the good guy he is gently says, “Yes you do. You know exactly what to do. But I can’t be the one to give you permission to do it, Arthur. There’s no choice here, there never was, not since you met him, not really. You’ll hurt Vivian, yes. Things with the company may get shaky, perhaps. Your father… well, who knows what will happen there. But would any of that truly matter?”

“No.”

“The only question unanswered is the one that doesn’t seem to have even occurred to you, because you’re a bit of an arrogant prick, to be honest.”

“What?” Arthur looks round at him wildly.

“I said you’re an arrogant-“

“No, I got that bit. What’s the question?”

Leon looks a little sorry for him, forehead creasing in the dusk light, one hand squeezing Arthur’s shoulder.

“The question is, how does Merlin feel? I think you should call off the engagement, yes. I think you shouldn’t have proposed in the first place, but that’s not helpful now. It’s not just because you’ve fallen in love with someone, it was a mistake from the start, really-“

“Alright, I get it!”

“But does Merlin feel the same about you?”

Arthur drops his head back onto Leon’s arm and stares up at the darkening sky.

“I have no fucking idea.”

*

Merlin calls round for the invitations on Monday evening, after Arthur has spent the weekend ‘gathering his thoughts’ by drinking Saturday away with Gwaine and Elyan on Leon’s living room floor and sleeping all of Sunday on Leon’s couch. He’d finally been chivvied home at about 11pm on Sunday night, which was only because Leon was on-call for the night shift and needed a proper sleep. Plus, he was openly getting sick of Arthur being in his house.

Vivian didn’t seem bothered when he’d come in so late, just rolled her eyes at him in the bathroom mirror as she rinsed off her face mask, pronounced the invitations perfect and went to sleep.

Monday at work had been quiet – he’d spent most of it avoiding Morgana, who’d pretty much spent _her_ day searching the building top to bottom for him. Poor Freya had a horrible time trying to ward her off. When he arrived home, he’d just turned on the stove to start searing some steaks when the doorbell rung, and he came face to face with Merlin.

“Hello,” Merlin murmurs, looking almost shy. “How are you?”

“Good. Great. Fine. Uh, come on in.”

“I want to apologise for the other night,” Merlin says, voice a little loud and stiff. He hasn’t moved from the doorstep. “It was unprofessional and rude. I had too much to drink and lost sight of the fact that you’re a client and that I can’t say or feel... I just… I’m sorry.”

“It’s… it’s fine. I… I’m sorry too, I was a bloody bell-end to you. It’s just… what you were saying… you weren’t wrong.”

Merlin looks surprised at that, but he offers Arthur another small smile.

He lets Merlin into the house and leads the way through the entry-way and dining area to the kitchen. He rushes back to his steaks before the oil gets too cold, glancing up quickly when Merlin joins him, peering over his shoulder, letting out a low whistle.

“Filet mignon? Nice!”

Arthur turns to look at his face, heart thumping away in his throat at his proximity. Merlin offers him a slow smile, then turns to appraise the rest of the house, the sitting room with vases of fresh flowers, the marble dining table, the view out the windows. “This place is amazing!”

“Erm, I can give you a tour?’ He abandons his steaks, turning off the gas, far more interested in Merlin.

He waves a hand outside at the little courtyard garden out the French doors from the kitchen – the trellis of wisteria, the small rose bushes, the fire pit, then leads him back through the kitchen and dining room, which are modernist and clean in décor – or had been until Vivian had moved in. She had gotten the kitchen retiled in yellow and white, unfortunately, and had bought all new yellow smeg appliances.

He points out the small sitting area by the door, then leads Merlin up to the second floor, the sunken living room and huge tv. Vivian’s filled it with about a million orange and pink throw pillows, for some reason, but Arthur ignores those. There’s a bathroom off to one side and a bay window looking out over the street that his brown leather couch has migrated to sit under. Upstairs are two guest bedrooms, one of which serves as his office, and another bathroom, all mostly crammed with Vivian’s clothes and other junk. 

“The top floor is the master,” Arthur says, unable to stop his hands from shaking, suddenly nervous.

“The view must be amazing,” Merlin is smiling, something in his eyes that Arthur’s too scared to try to decipher. He leads him up the last flight of stairs, trembling the whole way. The landing opens immediately onto the bedroom, and Merlin stares about at all the pink in surprise.

“She certainly lives here, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” and there’s nothing Arthur regrets more than that – proposing, letting her move in, letting it all go on this long. “It’s been an adjustment…”

“Do you use all those pillows?” Merlin wonders, oblivious to Arthur’s inner turmoil. He gestures to the mass of fuchsia and turquoise throw pillows on the bed, looking fascinated.

“Ah, no. One in that pile is mine. The rest are, ah, for show?”

“But how many people do you show your bedroom too?” Merlin asks as he glances around at the cream armchair by the window, Vivian’s dressers covered in jewellery and makeup, the view again of the Thames.

“Well. You’re here,” Arthur points out, folding his arms.

“So I am,” Merlin agrees, and the look lingers, stretches on forever. Somehow, they’ve come closer, standing together by the foot of the bed even though Merlin had been over by the window.

“What did you mean, earlier, when you said I was right?” Merlin asks.

“I think, perhaps, the same thing you meant when you said you lost sight of the fact that I was your client?”

“Oh,” Merlin whispers and Arthur swallows so hard he thinks it can be heard on the other side of the river.

The moment is broken when he hears a key in the lock downstairs, Vivian’s voice calling his name.

“Up here,” he calls back automatically, handing Merlin the invitations, which had been sitting on Vivian’s marble bedside table.

“That’s what you want, then?” Merlin breathes.

“I don’t know anymore, I really don’t,” is all Arthur has time to say before Vivian comes striding in, her black pencil skirt and yellow silk top accentuating her figure.

“Oh, brilliant!” she exclaims, bouncing over to squeeze Merlin in a hug. “They’re all perfect! The addresses are all written out too, hopefully it’s not too tedious for you.”

“I’m quite used to it,” Merlin doesn’t give Arthur a second glace, and barely a minute later he’s letting himself out onto the street. Arthur watches him from the window until he’s out of sight down the footpath.

“Arthur, darling,” Vivian calls from downstairs, having followed Merlin. “Why are these steaks just sitting here raw in the pan!?”

*

The invitations start arriving at the recipient’s addresses a week later – Arthur knows because Leon calls him but doesn’t say anything.

“Look. Look, I don’t even know where to begin, this is all just so fucked now!”

“Arthur, for crying out loud,” Leon sighs, and Arthur can practically see him rubbing his eyes in frustration.

“I don’t know what to do!” Arthur tells him, his voice small.

“Listen to me! Listen to what literally _everyone_ is telling you! You have got to call this off.”

“I… I want to. I’m just petrified. It’s so real now. I know I can and should and I _need_ to end it. And Merlin…”

“Merlin what?”

“I think he might feel the same? I _think_?”

Leon just lets out a long sigh, then swears quietly, before offering “Want to come around and get shit-faced? I’ll invite the lads.”

“Yes,” Arthur says in a heartbeat, before he’s up and off the wooden bench in his garden, traipsing through the house for his jacket.

“I’m off to Leon’s,” he calls to Vivian, who’s lounging in the window-seat reading Vogue, her own face on the cover.

“Oh, can I come?” she asks, laying the magazine carefully aside.

“Uh, it’s just the guys, I think.”

“OK,” she shrugs, “I might get Sophia and the girls over then, is that fine?”

“Yeah, course,” he says, pulling his jacket on and shoving his bare feet into a pair of loafers. “There’s plenty of room if they want to stay, don’t wait up for me.”

Then he’s barrelling out the door, feeling that rush of freedom he always gets when he’s not looking at her.

Elyan’s already there when Arthur arrives, lounging on the sofa with a beer and Leon is quick to hand Arthur one; what tension was still left after his walk dissipates once he’s in the company of people who actually care about him.

They’re three beers in and rambling about their uni days around the dining table, letting Elyan cheat at their poker game, when Gwaine and Perce arrive. Perce immediately turns on the football and plonks himself on the couch to watch but Gwaine storms up to Arthur and whacks him around the head with their copy of the wedding invitation.

“Don’t start,” Leon warns him, so Gwaine just bitch-faces and drops down onto the free seat next to Arthur, scowling.

“It’s stupid,” he tells his beer bottle, before swilling from it angrily.

“Stop that,” Leon insists, frowning at the rate of alcohol consumption.

“Listen to the Doctor,” Elyan advises, not looking up from his cards.

“Well I’m _sorry_ that I seem to be the only one who thinks this sham of a wedding is a complete fucking mistake!” Gwaine bursts out, at the exact moment Lance lets himself in, announcing he’s brought some gate-crashers and followed by Gwen and to Arthur’s shock not only his sister but Merlin.

Merlin’s peering over Morgana’s shoulder, looking surprised at the shouting, eyes finding and locking on to Arthur in seconds.

Arthur stares back at him, stunned into silence, cards forgotten until they slip from his limp hands and flutter onto the table.

“What are you doing here?”

“Lance invited us. I spent the day with Gwen sorting catering for the party next week to celebrate the Adams account,” Morgana replies haughtily, the implication that Arthur should have been handling it clear in her voice as she tucks her arm through Merlin’s. “And Merlin’s been utterly exhausted and miserable lately – yours isn’t the only wedding he’s got coming up, you know. We thought he could use a night out too. Now, what were you saying?” This she directs at Gwaine, her eyes narrow and angry, which confuses Arthur since she’s hated Vivian from the beginning.

“I was saying that I think Arthur marrying Vivian is a giant fucking mistake.”

“Give it a rest, babe,” Percy insists from the couch, turning to give Gwaine a long look. “Don’t ruin the evening.”

That was enough to make Gwaine pipe down, finally, and they all awkwardly go back to what they were doing. Morgana joins the poker game as Leon deals a new round, and the other three newcomers settle down in the lounge with Percy.

Arthur glances up at the game from time to time, letting his eyes linger on the back of Merlin’s head. He couldn’t tell you who was playing who, not even if it had been Chelsea.

Gwaine remains sullen for the rest of the night, and by early evening he and Morgana are whispering together conspiratorially on the other side of the table, shooting Arthur annoyed looks every now and then. Sick of them, Arthur abandons the game and wanders into the living room, ruffling the top of Lance’s head and kissing Gwen’s as he passes the couch, taking a seat in the armchair next to Merlin’s.

“We were just going to order pizza,” Leon calls, and it’s as he sits that Arthur realises how hungry he is, and how much he’s had to drink on balance.

“Did Vivian tell you about our trip next week?” Merlin asks in greeting, voice low.

“No? It’s possible I wasn’t listening.”

“We’re going back to your father’s, Vivian’s got appointments with a couple of local hairdressers, make-up artists and nail salons. She wanted to bring an entourage up from London, but I convinced her local is better – less opportunity for something to go wrong, transport issues and such, if it’s not such a logistical operation.”

“Ah, good.”

Merlin looks back to the TV screen, distracted by something that makes Gwen gasp and Perce swear, a goal or a foul, probably. When he looks back Arthur can’t even be bothered trying to pretend he isn’t staring.

Merlin clears his throat a little, then resumes talking about the wedding.

“Gwen’s free on Thursday evening for the cake consult, if that’s fine by you. Did you decide between the fruit flavours or the chocolate?”

“I don’t care.”

“Gwen needs an answer,” Merlin says patiently, though he eyes him carefully. “You can’t keep saying you don’t mind or don’t care to everything, that’s not helpful to the vendors. It’s a waste of her time and ingredients if she has to-“

“Fine,” Arthur interrupts, feeling annoyed all over again. “The chocolate. It will be fall, fruit flavours are too summery.”

“Sounds great,” Gwen beams at him from Merlin’s other side, where she’s tucked up comfortably under Lance’s arm.

One of the nuts that Morgana and Gwaine have, it transpires, been throwing at Arthur’s head since he sat down with Merlin finally makes contact, a second after Gwaine wails, “No don’t waste that, that was a pecan!”

Arthur glares at his sister and she glares right back before beckoning him. He sighs and gets up – she’ll cause a scene to get him to go to her if she must, and he’s had enough attention for one night already, no thanks to Gwaine.

“If you’re going to start in on me too about the wedding, I really don’t want to hear it,” he warns her, when they’ve settled down with their drinks in the privacy of Leon’s study.

“I wanted to know if you’re OK,” she tells him patiently. “Not that I don’t think Gwaine has a point…”

The magnitude of the possibility of calling off the wedding is like a pit in his stomach, exciting and terrifying and exhilarating and wrong. “I can’t,” he tells her, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Pizza’s here,” someone howls, probably Gwaine, loud enough to be heard throughout the house. Neither Arthur nor Morgana move.

She takes his hand, her long, pale fingers wrapping around his palm.

“Just explain to me so I can understand. It’s so much harder to support you when I don’t understand. I’m really trying to.”

“I know you are,” he agrees, because she is, and he’s grateful and so he tries. “If I call it off, I’ll lose the business, I’ll lose my reputation, my contacts…” Yet the more he tries to justify why he can’t, the more ludicrous and unimportant all his reasons seem. Does he really want the company, if getting it means living a life of lies? Is his obligation to his birthright worth being so unhappy for? No one that truly loved him seemed to think so.

A slight knock on the door heralds Leon, who comes in with a pizza box and another bottle of red for them, then leaves without saying anything at all, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Ultimately,” Arthur realises, even as he takes a huge bite of pizza, the alcohol he’s already consumed making his head spin and his mouth dry, “If I lose her, I lose everything.”

Morgana just shakes her head at him and sips her wine, muttering, “I wish to God you could see that that’s not actually a bad thing,” into her glass.

Arthur pretends not to hear, just gets up and mumbles that he’s going back to the living room. He doesn’t _have_ to sit there and be on the receiving end of her judgement. If they don’t get him or his reasonings or his choices, that’s fine, because neither does he.

He leaves her the wine and bumps into Merlin coming down the dark hallway because of course he does.

“Oh, hey, I wondered where you snuck off to,” Merlin tells him, all cheerful smile and crinkling eyes. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“Next door on the right,” Arthur says, before he takes Merlin’s face in his hands and pulls him closer. Merlin’s hands land on his shoulders and he gasps, in surprise or for some other reason, Arthur doesn’t know. They gaze at each other, inches apart and Arthur wants to kiss him so bad, kiss him and call off the wedding and kick Vivian out of his house and put Merlin _in_ his house…

He doesn’t realise he’s whispering all this out loud until Merlin makes a choked noise and presses their foreheads together for a long moment, breathing ragged, before he pushes him away.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he looks angry and upset and hopeful, all at once and Arthur feels it so physically that he has to lean back against the opposite wall to stay upright.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Merlin says again. “You can’t keep saying things and doing things and looking at me like you look at me, but then have me keep on planning your fucking wedding! You tell me you have feelings for me then you have me send out your wedding invitations! You do what you just did now, but in five days your fiancée and I are going on a fucking road trip so that I can make her look even more inhumanly beautiful for your fucking _wedding day_! Do you truly not get that you can’t keep doing this!?”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say, his mind is blank, can’t think of anything except the “I don’t want her, I don’t want to marry her,” that he breathes out into the void between them.

“Then do what literally everyone seems to be screaming at you and call it off.”

“Do you want me to. Do _you_ want me to? Please, God, say you do. And do you want me to because it’s wrong to marry someone I don’t love, or because you love me back?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, just storms down the hallway, the front door slamming after him mere seconds later.

*

Merlin and Vivian end up escaping London earlier than planned. He picks her up in a blue Toyota Yaris on Tuesday evening, Arthur watching him pull in to the curb from the bedroom window as Vivian scurries about behind him packing.

Merlin sees Arthur in the window as he climbs out of the car and seems to hesitate before reluctantly making his way to the front door.

“Merlin’s here,” Arthur tells Vivian over his shoulder. “Pulled up just now in a bloody hideous car.”

“Surprisingly,” Vivian replies, voice muffled as she rifles through the wardrobe, “I like him too much to care what sort of car he drives, so long as it has functioning airbags and seatbelts.”

“I’ll just let him in, shall I?” Arthur doesn’t wait for an answer before racing down the stairs to the music of the doorbell.

Merlin greets him with a soft, tight smile, and all the reasons why Arthur has to call of this wedding hit him like a brick to the head.

“Hi,” Arthur says gently, “Look I want to apologise for the other night. I’ve been such a jerk and I think we need to talk, properly and privately-“

“Before or after we get all Vivian’s vendors sorted?” Merlin snaps. “Before or after your wedding day?”

When Arthur can’t answer Merlin waves a hand in his face in dismissal.

“Forget it. I don’t want to hear it. It’s nothing to do with me what happens to the two of you once the wedding is over. Just pay me and leave me alone.”

“I don’t want to go through with the wedding,” Arthur tells him, reaching to touch his hand on the doorframe, fingertip brushing over a knuckle. “I don’t.”

“Does Vivian know that? Because that conversation really needs to happen _before_ I waste a week in Shropshire.”

“I… I’m not quite ready for that part yet.”

“When will you be? In a week? On the wedding day? In five years? Ten? Because that’s the pretty vital component here.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever will be,” Arthur has to admit.

“I think it’s best,” Merlin pronounces, his voice high with unshed tears, “If we just keep things professional until the wedding is over. Then, thank God, I never have to clap eyes on you again. Tell Vivian I’m in the car when she’s ready.”

Arthur doesn’t stop him because he doesn’t have anything left to say. He can’t pretend he wants to marry Vivian, and while he may be able to admit that out loud, he can’t pretend he’s at the point where he feels he can actively just call it off.

Vivian kisses his cheek as she sails past ten minutes later, and waves while Merlin loads her suitcases in the car. Then in the next breath they’re gone.

Arthur goes for a long run along the Thames, desperate for the exercise and the following fatigue to wipe his brain clean and block out all thoughts. It doesn’t work.

*

On Thursday Arthur goes to Gwen’s flat for the consult on the cake flavours. They’re all delicious, the combinations of rich chocolate melding subtly with alcohol. He devours all four slices in three minutes and pronounces them perfect. His favourite is the dark chocolate with whiskey, and she immediately brings him a second slice.

He finds himself relaxing so easily around her, the familiarity making it simple. Also, because she doesn’t nag him about the wedding or try to talk him out of it, like everyone else seems to want to do. But he can see her unhappiness in her eyes, in the downturn of her mouth and her tense shoulders – she was his first love, and you don’t care about someone as much as they did each other to have that ever fade.

They talk instead about her honeymoon, which seems so long ago now, and her business, which is picking up for as Gwen gains reputation and popularity. She tries to ask about how work is going for Arthur, but he finds so boring and dull and unfulfilling that he doesn’t want to talk about it for long. Lance makes a brief appearance with mugs of tea for them both then leaves them to it, sat together at the dining table in the cosy and cluttered kitchen.

It’s only three hours later, when Gwen’s opening the door to let him out that she makes any mention of his wedding.

“Not too long to go,” she says cheerfully, though her smile is a little forced. “Just three more weeks!”

He realises with a sick jolt that she’s right – time has got away from him and September is flying by.

“Yes,” he agrees, with feigned joy. “Not long.”

She touches his arm, and he smiles weakly for her before stepping out into the hall, the door snapping shut softly behind him.

There’s a bloke a little way down, grumbling under his breath nothing but swear words as he fumbles with his keys and his locked door.

“Fucking bloody useless piece of shit lock! OI! MERLIN!” He pounds on the door with the flat of his hand a few times, and it takes Arthur a moment to realise this must be Will, Merlin’s flatmate and best friend.

“He’s still not back from his trip,” he tells the bloke, who whirls in surprise to stare at him.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Arthur. Merlin’s in Shropshire with my fiancée planning the last of our wedding. He’s not back until Monday I think.”

Will eyes him, sizing him up, “So you’re that Arthur cunt he keeps banging on about?”

“Er…”

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but it’s not to be fair. I think you’re a right fucking bell-end, actually, leading him up the garden path. You’re doing his head in, and mine because I’m the one that keeps having to hear about it. Do you know how much time he wastes mooning and crying over you? You can fuck your own life up till the cows come home, but why don’t you try to be a bit less of a selfish asshole and quit messing with my best mate’s feelings?”

As he speaks, he advances down the hallway to poke an angry finger into Arthur’s chest, at the same moment as Lance swings the door open behind him.

“Wrap up, would you, Will? We can hear you out on the balcony.”

“Like I care, this little bitch-“

“I said enough!” Lance snaps, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and leading him down the hall. “Put a sock in it, you’re not helping anyone, least of all Merlin.”

Will seethes at that, but reluctantly goes back to fiddling with his doorknob, eyes murderous.

Lance walks Arthur to his car in silence and gives him a long hug before he gets in.

“If you need us, just call,” then Lance pats the roof of his car and heads back inside to his wife.

*

Arthur next sees Lance just two days later, at their suit fittings, trailing into the Calvin Klein store behind Leon, who’s dragging Gwaine in by the arm.

The boys are quiet and subdued, unhappy. They don’t want to be there, endlessly changing from three-piece to four-piece tuxes, forced to go over the merits of waistcoats vs. cummerbunds, and choosing things like linings, bowties, belts, for a wedding they don’t want to happen.

Leon must have put his foot down because Gwaine is being pointedly tight-lipped, changing into and out of whatever is required of him without complaint, though as a model that must be natural for him. Arthur almost wishes he would give some lip, just to ease the tension.

He stands in front of a full-length mirror in what Vivian wants him to wear, fussing with the waistcoat, desperately trying to keep up a charade of happiness, wondering if what Merlin keeps saying is true and he really will leave it until the day of to call it off.

They all part ways quietly at the front door of the shop with barely any words spoken. Arthur struggles to bring himself to look any of his friends in the eye. It hurts too much, and he is too bad at lying to them to be able to keep it up for long.

He goes home to the comfort of his quiet, Vivian-less house, sits down on his brown leather couch and can’t bring himself to move for a long time.

*

Vivian is home when he gets in from work on Monday, the dullness of the day settling in behind his eyes as an unshakeable headache. She’s brimming with news about how she’ll have her hair, waving her hands to demonstrate how it will twist as she wanders behind him up the stairs. He changes and goes for a run to get away from her, though she’s babbling about the colour they’ll do for her nails even as he pulls the door shut behind him.

He carefully avoids thinking about anything at all, has no contact with Merlin or his friends or family. The jeweller, some fancy crowd in Belgravia, call to say the rings are ready to collect and in the last few days of September his buck’s night arrives, which seems to take them to every bar in Chelsea.

They all get ridiculously drunk and at some point, somewhere dark with bass thumping through speakers that is killing Arthur’s head due to the amount of Jägermeister he’s consumed, Gwaine falls onto him in something resembling a hug and apologises for, in his words, “being an assjerk.”

Arthur tells him the truth – or rather yells it drunkenly in his ear over the music – that there’s nothing to forgive, he knows his friend has only been trying to prevent him making a mistake, that he wasn’t wrong.

When he gets home, dizzy and bleary-eyed, Vivian pounces on him at the front door and shrieks that it’s officially Sunday which means that in a week she’ll be his wife, her legs wrapping around his waist.

That sobers him up almost completely and the nerves and disgust, mostly self-directed, keep him awake all night.

*

The next morning, he knows it’s time. Merlin pervades every thought, every sense, so much so that Arthur knows he’ll never escape him and will never have a chance at the sort of happiness he thinks he can have with him again.

He has to call the wedding off.

He would go to Leon, but after the amount of tequila his best friend drunk last night, he doesn’t think it’s fair.

So, he goes to Gwen, lingering helplessly outside Merlin’s door for a long moment on his way down the hall.

Gwen lets him in and leads him out onto the balcony overlooking the little garden, and Arthur sits down, drinks the cup of tea and eats the bacon sandwich she makes him, then tells her what he’s been avoiding for so very long.

“I’m in love with Merlin.”

She looks at him without surprise, her eyes level and calm, before venturing, “And this means you’ll call off the wedding?”

“God, the wedding,” he rubs his eyes, his face, feeling hot and happy and scared all at once.  “Yes. I have to. I have to call it off. I should never have let it all carry on this long. I should never have proposed.”

“And then,” she asks, because she’s a very logical person. “And then you’ll talk to Merlin?”

“I’m not sure Merlin will want to see me.”

“Oh Arthur,” she sighs. “Don’t tell me you don’t realise he loves you too?”

“I think he does, actually, though I’m not sure why. It’s just… it’s not practical. To call off a wedding to a woman and go running after a bloke two seconds later, who I treated like utter crap and took advantage of, by the way.”

“Practical!? Love is nothing to do with practical!”

“I’m just not sure I’m ready. It’s all too much. I don’t know if I can cope with it all. I don’t know if I’m ready for it all to be real. I’m not brave enough.”

“You are!”

“No, I’m not, it’s too scary,” he feels defeated, miserable. There’s no way Merlin could want him after all the damage and hurt he’s caused.

“Do you forget how well I know you?” Gwen asks. “I loved you once and do you really think I’ve forgotten for a second all the ways you lie to and punish yourself? Honestly, Arthur, just try and be as brave as I know you are.”

He doesn’t know what to say except “I can’t” again, plaintive, needing her to tell him it’s OK to balk and be scared and also OK to pursue what he though was lost to him, what he thought he could never have.

“Yes, you can,” she sighs. “You’re calling off the wedding a week out, ending 4 years with Vivian… why can’t you take that one step extra?”

“I’ll lose everything.”

“Don’t you think he’s worth it?”

“Yes!” Arthur bites back before he can stop himself. “Yes. Of course, he is. He could only be. He could never be any but.”

“You seem to think you can’t have it all, Arthur. You think letting go of Vivian means losing the company? So what? You don’t even like working there, you only do it out of duty. You think being with a man will affect your relationship with your father? I think he may surprise you – he loves you more than you can comprehend.” She leans over and takes his hand, “You’ve just got to remember who you are and pursue what will make you happy. So, is that a lifetime of board meetings and boring business, late nights sitting up trying to retain Uther’s legacy, days on end of boredom surrounded by people you don’t like who don’t understand you? Or is it a lifetime with Merlin?”

Arthur doesn’t know, doesn’t know if he’s ready yet or if Merlin will simply want to wash his hands of him now and never see him again.

“One step at a time,” he vows, standing up and brushing himself off, to go home and break the news to Vivian.

*

It seems to surprise them both, how well she takes it, in the end. She was shocked, initially, and upset, naturally. She wept in his arms that she’s confused and didn’t understand and what about her dream _wedding_ , so he sat her down and they had what may well have been their first honest conversation.

“It’s a lie to marry you, I can’t make you my wife,” he explains, “because I don’t love you. I’m sorry. I’ve tried and a part of me wishes I could, but I can’t and I just don’t.”

He expects more tears, anger, some beating him about the head with his own coffee table, perhaps. Instead she wipes at her eyes, snivels a little, and says, “Oh, I suppose it’s no great surprise. Not after Merlin came on the scene at least.”

She deserves better than being lied too, deserves a real and happy marriage one day, so rather than babbling out a denial that it’s anything to do with Merlin at all he simply says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it coming. Up until that day I would have gone through with it, I think.”

“It’s a shame. It would have been a beautiful wedding.”

He helps her pack a few things and tells her that he’ll handle everything, contacting Merlin, the vendors, every single guest, if he must. She heads off to Sophia’s saying she’ll be back to pack up all her stuff in a few days, brushing a kiss to his cheek in farewell.

Merlin answers the phone sounding suspicious and when Arthur tells him without greeting, “I’m ringing to let you know I’m calling off the wedding,” he just swears then sighs dramatically as if he doesn’t care either way.

“You’ll still be paid,” Arthur tells him, trying to think what he could want to hear. “Vivian took it all very well. I want to be the one to contact the vendors, you shouldn’t have to. Do you have names and contact details?”

“If you like, I’ll email the list through in a tick. I can pop across the hall and tell Gwen too.”

“She already knows.”

“I assume you’ll speak to your family and close friends in time, but the best way to contact most of the guests is for me to send out a mass message.”

“If you think that’s best.”

Merlin hangs up immediately without a goodbye.

Leon, when Arthur calls him next, simply says “I’m proud of you,” and asks whether he wants him to come over, which Arthur declines. Elyan sounds the saddest, Lance already knows and Gwaine practically screams his ear off cheering down the phone, Perce grumbling in the background for him to keep it down, he can’t hear the game babe, but to tell Arthur well done.

He drinks a shot of scotch and calls Morgana, who bursts into relieved tears and can’t really talk much. He drinks another and calls Vivian, sad for her and guilty enough to need to know she’s coping. Sophia answers, and isn’t as nasty as he expected. Vivian sounds OK enough, says Merlin had already got in contact and thanks him for handling everything.

They talk things through some more – she has questions and he owes a lot of answers. When she’s ready to hang up, which is around the time Merlin’s list of vendors is emailed through with a simple, “Here you go, have fun” in the subject line, he tells her he’s about to call his father.

“It will be OK,” she insists. “It doesn’t feel like it right now, not for either of us, I imagine. But it will be OK. You’ve done the right thing. I deserve someone who wants me. And you deserve someone as wonderful as Merlin.”

He drinks two more shots before he calls his father, who’s stunned with the declaration, to put it lightly.

“But why!?” he shouts in shock, when Arthur tells him the wedding isn’t going ahead.

“Because I’ve called it off. I can’t do it.”

“Why on earth not!?”

“Because I don’t love her. I don’t want to marry her. And I think I might be gay.”

More than anything, more than surprise or anger, Uther just seems upset Arthur didn’t talk to him sooner, hadn’t felt he could confide in him, hadn’t given him the chance to help him.

“You’re my son, and I love you and your sister more than anything! More than the company, more than my reputation, and certainly the last thing I would ever want is for you to throw away all chances at happiness and ruin your life in a loveless marriage! I don’t care if you love a woman or a man, I just want you happy.”

Arthur finally cries then, the shock and reality of it all hitting home. He promises to come and stay with his father once everything is cancelled and the mess he’s made is a bit more sorted, then he hangs up to curl up on his couch alone and cry into an orange throw pillow.

*

Three weeks later, when the dust is settling and vendors are compensated and he and Vivian are in a slightly better place (and after Gwaine threw a massive bender of a party in celebration), Arthur heads out to Shropshire.

Vivian phones while he’s on the road, sounding happy enough, as she suns herself on a beach in Bali.

“I talked with Merlin yesterday,” she says, and he grunts to try and cover the fact that he is listening with every part of being. “He’s in Wales, visiting his Mum.”

“Oh. Right,” nonchalance has never suited him.

“I thought you ought to know,” she sniffs a little.

“Vivian…”

“I thought you ought to know,” she says again, insistent, sad. It would take a while to smooth out the hurt, even though theirs hadn’t been real love. He would always care for her.

“Nothing happened while the ring was on your finger. Nothing like that ever happened between us at all,” he swore as he pulls over, and she sighs.

“Oh Arthur. Yes, it did. You fell in love with him, didn’t you? How is that nothing?”

He can’t speak, eyes wet and so excruciatingly sorry. They go around in circles like this a lot – reaching a good place until either guilt overrides Arthur or Vivian’s voice breaks and she cries, and they’re right back to square one, struggling to help each other through it all again.

“Did you ever love me?” She sobs.

“I cared for you very much, and I still do. But not like that, no.”

“I knew that, really, I just refused to let myself see it. People like you and me, who lead these lives of inheritances and parties and estates and titles… we don’t get very many chances at true love and fairy tales. So, I shall be very cross with you if you screw it up a second time!”

He laughs through his silent tears, a weight lifting off a little, as she notes pointedly just how close Ealdor is to his father’s estate.

Uther is waiting out on the driveway, almost bouncing anxiously on his feet, and when Arthur gets out of the car, he crushes him in a tight hug. Arthur closes his eyes and relaxes his body, leans on his father and lets all the tension and fear drift out of him.

Then, as they walk together into the house, arms around each other’s shoulders, he starts to tell him about Merlin.

They wander around the grounds as they talk about Merlin and the wedding and Vivian and the whole giant mess of mistakes Arthur made of things, and what he ought to do next – Arthur has spent so much time inside on the phone or sending emails the past few weeks, and Uther agonises over how pale he is. He’s brought all his favourite foods at dinner, one maid even venturing to quietly tell him she was so pleased for his sake to hear the news. They sit up late, in front of the fire in Uther’s library, talking over scotch. His father is sorry to hear Arthur had thought he had to marry Vivian to secure his position at the company – most of all he was shocked that Arthur even wanted to run the show.

“I always assumed Morgana would take over,” Uther shrugs. “She’s more cutthroat than you, more devious, happy negotiating and getting her way, running rings around people… I always thought you’d pack it in after a few years and strike out on your own on some other sort of venture.”

“You don’t want to leave me the company?” That threw a lot into question.

“I don’t care about the company! I care about you and Morgana. Besides, do you want it?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur replies honestly, sipping his drink and staring into the fire. “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore, certainly not about myself.”

“You need to talk to Merlin,” Uther says decisively. “You really can’t move forward until you have. You’ll just be stuck in limbo mooning after him, and honestly, son, it’s a bit pathetic. Go and talk to him, tell him how you feel, let him tell you whatever he has to say, and take it from there. The company won’t matter much at all afterwards, believe me.”

Arthur supposes that for once, he might just do the best thing and take the advice given to him the first time, without a fight.

*

He leaves the Hall early the next morning, without calling Merlin to warn him he’s coming – selfishly, he doesn’t want him to run away. He gets his address from Gwen, can hear her smiling as she rattles it off.

The drive flies by and it’s a beautiful day for November. He notices nothing until he’s passing through the countryside just a few miles out from Ealdor, when his phone bursts to life in its holder on his windshield.

It’s Vivian. He pulls over.

“Don’t screw it up!”

“I won’t. I won’t,” he vows, needing her to understand that he didn’t break her heart for nothing. He might not have loved her, but he’d loved her, and she was too good a person to deserve to be thrown aside for a slammed door and the ruination of the rest of his life. He has to make his life from here on out good and right and worth it, for her and for himself. And Merlin is the key to happiness, always way, the only way forward, all and all and everything.

He pulls into the drive of a little stone cottage in the village of Ealdor, right behind Merlin’s car. The house is exactly where Gwen said it would be, over the road from the pub, next to a little library. The village is sweet, all stone walls and flowerboxes, but nothing calms Arthur’s nerves, even the tranquillity of the place.

Knocking on the door is the scariest thing he’s ever done.

The door is answered by a woman who looks gentle and kind and from who Merlin plainly got his smiling eyes.

She beams at him when he asks for Merlin and leads him into a cosy sitting room that’s painted a butter yellow and crammed with pot plants and bookshelves before disappearing somewhere into the little house to find her son.

To say Merlin’s surprised when he appears in the doorway to see Arthur sitting on his mum’s navy-blue couch would be an understatement. He freezes, and his eyes go comically wide before he half screams, “What the fucking fuck are you doing here!?”

Arthur stands up, but has to stop himself from going to him, taking him in his arms.

“I owe you about a million explanations, so if you’ve got time, I’d like to try getting through some of them.”

Slowly, Merlin inches forward into the room and takes a seat next to him, his expression a combination of suspicious and surprised that makes his eyebrows look odd.

“First of all,” Arthur stares down at his hands, which are trembling a little, at the place on the second finger of his left hand where the palladium ring Vivian had picked for him could very well be resting, had it not been for the man next to him. “First of all, I need to tell you that I love you. I didn’t think it was possible to fall in love with someone the moment you saw them, I thought that was utter bollocks. Then I saw you and that was it. It was like a magnet, I couldn’t look away all night, I just wanted to be near you. I’d have asked you out at Gwen’s wedding, if I’d been single, even though I’ve never liked a bloke before. It was terrifying but all I could think was how badly I didn’t want the reception to end, so that I could keep being in the same room as you.”

Merlin smiles a little at that, and offers, “I was pretty disappointed when it turned out you were engaged, and to a woman.”

“I’d given up on any chance of love years ago, thrown it all away on Vivian, resigned myself to unhappiness and boredom and a life of lies. But I was so desperate to see you again, to be around you as much as possible I just kept moving forward with the plans, never quite comprehending it was going to lead an actual, legal, mistake of a wedding.”

“You should have called it off sooner. I so, so badly wanted with every part of me for you to just call if off, all along.”

“Yes. I should have. But I was scared of losing everything I thought I was trying to build, the company, my reputation and future. As if any of that matters! I can’t comprehend why I ever thought it did. I’d throw it all away for you in a heartbeat… well, I kind of already have, really.”

Merlin shakes his head at him, but he’s slid a little closer and that hesitant smile is promising.

Arthur carries on, “I was captivated by you, no one has ever made me feel that way. I fell so in love with you that night and more and more in the months after and right now I couldn’t love you more, it’s not possible. I wasn’t particularly bothered that you were a bloke, I just wanted to be with you. I want to be with you. All I could think when it came to calling off the wedding was that I was scared you wouldn’t feel the same way, and that I’d give everything up for a broken heart. I was so selfish and so blind, it’s almost amazing.”

“Amazingly stupid. And I still haven’t said whether I feel the same way,” Merlin points out, looking smug.

“No,” Arthurs agrees. “You haven’t, nor properly. So, do you?”

“Yes, God yes, how could you not know that!?” Merlin groans, before he leans in and kisses him.

It feels just Arthur had known it was meant to, real and right, like he’s intoxicated and starved all at once, taking Merlin’s shoulders in his hands to haul him closer. There’s more to explain, but finally getting the answer he’s been needing is cause for some celebrating, he thinks.

*

They marry three years later in a forest in Scotland, not far from where they live in Inverness, where their wedding planning business is doing relatively well. The weddings they plan are usually on the banks of lochs or atop mountains, nowadays, and it’s a far cry from London but Arthur couldn’t be happier.

It’s a simple, intimate ceremony, only 50 or so people. Their respective parents walk them down an aisle lined with ivy and candles, and as the sun sets, they stand underneath beech trees and say vows Arthur’s too emotional to remember, and finally exchange wooden rings with a thin band of gold through the centre. The reception is in the next clearing, and they wander to it hand in hand alongside their guests, the forest filled with the sound of laughter and clapping and Gwaine’s happy, loud and off-key singing. Uther walks with them for a bit, his arms around both their shoulders, and Morgana holds Arthur’s free hand for a while, though she insists it’s to help her negotiate the dirt track in her heels and just about stomps on his foot when he suggests otherwise.

In the clearing, the long wooden tables are covered in greenery and candles, and trees that surround it are filled with lanterns, fairy lights strung from branches. He and Merlin take their seats for dinner still clutching each other’s hands, still grinning like loons, and Arthur really can’t believe, despite everything, watching Merlin’s profile as he laughs with Gwen who’s sitting across from him with her baby girl in her arms, that he’s done enough good in his life to deserve this.

Merlin catches him watching him and grins, starlight reflecting in his eyes.

“Regretting not going through with marrying Vivian after all?” He teases, laughing when Arthur pushes him back against Lance’s side.

He looks deliriously happy, and it fills Arthur up with emotions he can’t even name just to look at him.

“I love you,” he tells him, and his husband smiles back as he reaches out for him. Arthur kisses him softly, rubs the back of his neck even as he tucks his chin there, ignoring Gwaine’s wolf-whistling. He mumbles in Merlin’s ear that he’s so beyond grateful that somehow he got to be this lucky, grateful that Merlin had waited for him to see sense, grateful to be celebrating this magical evening with his beloved family and friends and grateful he was going to continue building a life that he loved and was all his own with this man beside him.

Merlin hums at him in acknowledgement, calls him a dork, and then kisses him again and again until Leon kicks Arthur solidly in the ankle under the table, pointedly clearing his throat.

“Can’t you wait!? That cake looks amazing, go cut it so I can finally have some.”

Arthur concedes the fair point – Gwen’s created an utterly perfect cake, blood orange, vanilla and cranberries – though he does kiss Merlin again a fair few times in the process of standing.

“The things I do for you,” he grumbles to his best friend, who mimes threatening to throw his beer all over him.

“Hurry up!”

It’s a bit later, well after the cake eating, the first dance, the speeches, when he finally gets the time to go and see Vivian. She’s perched on her Brazilian underwear model husband’s lap, alone at their table at the edge of the clearing, and Arthur takes a seat next to them, placing a hand on her 8-month pregnant stomach to greet the little boy she’s carrying.

Vivian shakes out her hair and insists, “Don’t even try to tell me I look beautiful, Arthur, I look like a whale.”

Her husband rolls his eyes good naturedly behind her and Arthur just laughs.

“Wrong, you’re as beautiful as ever, Vivian. Thank you both for coming, it’s good to see you.”

She smiles warmly at him, the candlelight making her hair golden and eyes dance, and squeezes his hand.

“I never did thank you, for calling off the wedding,” her husband notes. “I’m a very lucky man because of it.”

“So am I,” Arthur claps his shoulder then stands, kissing Vivian’s forehead as he goes. He turns back to the party and his eyes immediately find his husband, who’s laughing manically with Will about starting a limbo competition in the middle of all the dancing.

Merlin sees him too and instantly he’s there with him, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“When are we leaving?” He asks pointedly, eyes mischievous and bright, body pressing to Arthur’s indecently.

“Whenever you like,” Arthur tells him, barely getting the words out before he’s being dragged in the direction of the cars with a pointed “Now, then.”

Perce is one of the few who spots them leaving – he toasts them with his glass, losing his restraining grip of Gwaine as he does, who goes pelting off to join the limbo line. It’s as his friend turns back to the party Arthur spots the outline of a box in his jacket pocket and he grins into Merlin’s hair as his very determined husband hauls him away into the night.


End file.
